The Taming of John Watson
by taylorpotato
Summary: In the aftermath of the Great Game, Sherlock decides it's time to break in the lovely John Watson. Gratuitous smut, whips, chains, and slashy goodness will ensue. (Now complete except for epilogue).
1. By the Pool

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

* * *

"So what happened there?" John barely dared to breathe.

"Someone changed his mind. The question is who?"

Sherlock's thoughts were already racing off in all directions. John could see it. He was almost surprised when the tall detective even held out a hand to help him to his feet.

John was shaking.

He could barely stand upright.

His heart was still on overdrive. His entire body was ringing. They'd almost died. Almost been blown to bits. The army training is designed to make you hold it together in a moment of crisis. But when the danger has passed, well, stronger men than John Watson had broken down into tears.

John could feel reality starting to set in hard all around him. It was like the world was spinning. He wanted to go. To have a cup of tea and crawl into a warm bed.

But Sherlock was just standing there, seemingly lost in thought.

John opened his mouth to say something to the effect of… _not to be a bother, but can we please get out of here before that lunatic comes back with a squad of snipers again_? But the words never made it to his lips.

Because two things happened.

First Sherlock's eyes refocused from the vague distance, down to John's face.

Second, John felt a pair of lanky arms wrapping around him, and pulling him into a hug.

Somehow it was more shocking than wearing a bomb, or having a gun pointed at his chest. At least those were familiar types of fear. This was a strange sort of intoxicating claustrophobia. John almost pulled away. But he couldn't quite do it.

The heat of Sherlock's body radiated right through him. He suddenly let out the breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. Perhaps John was equal parts confused and terrified, as he'd _never_ seen Sherlock hug anybody before. But he unconsciously relaxed into the physical contact. There was something undeniably comforting about being in someone's arms after a near-death experience. The why of it mattered less with each passing second.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said flatly.

"For what?"

"Letting him kidnap you."

The situation was quickly becoming much too surreal for John. In fact, it already had been ever since he'd stepped out the door that evening.

"It's all right." John cleared his throat. "These things happen, I suppose."

"You're not shaking anymore, shall I let go?"

"Um, yes. Probably."

Of course, John thought. Sherlock had seen how frightened he'd been. This was… logical, or something. The quickest way to get John calm so they could get out of there. Why else would Sherlock ever hug anybody?

Sherlock's grip loosened, but he didn't exactly let go. Instead he placed his hands on John's shoulders, and pulled back to study his face. John tried not to look like too much of a mess, even though he felt like a raw bundle of nerves.

It didn't help that one of Sherlock's hands had moved to the back of John's neck and was tracing along the top of his spine. It was sending strange electric pulses throughout the doctor's body.

Wait, what? Why was Sherlock doing that?

It was the last coherent thought John had before he blinked, and Sherlock's lips were pressed against his.

John was almost certain he'd suddenly melted. Or possibly fainted and this was all a hallucination.

Because Sherlock Holmes was kissing him gently, barely brushing their lips together. And John had stopped breathing.

It felt like he was drowning, and somehow he was holding onto the front lapels of Sherlock's coat like it was a lead life vest. He couldn't let go.

Or maybe it was that Sherlock wouldn't let him go. Long fingers were entangled in John's hair, and an arm was wrapped around his waist. John parted his lips without thinking about it and then he tasted mint and cigarettes. It was the best taste in the world.

When their tongues touched, the electric signals coursing through John's body cumulated into a jolt of something painfully wonderful. His heart was racing into overdriving again. The residual adrenaline surged through his veins with a new vengeance.

Sherlock bit down on John's lower lip ever so slightly, dragging his teeth along it, and the poor army doctor lost all notions of self-control. The kiss became rather savage. They were biting and sucking at each other's lips, swirling their tongues together, vying for control one second, and falling into complete submission the next.

John grabbed Sherlock's hips and pulled him closer. Sherlock tugged on John's hair just the right amount.

And John's blood was quite possibly on fire, rushing to all the wrong places.

Dear god, he had an erection.

Sherlock's hands were on his arse, squeezing. Sherlock's teeth were grazing the skin on his neck, and he couldn't help but let out a small moan. They were moving backwards. Or rather, John was moving backwards. He found himself pinned up against the wall and the tall detective was diving in for another devouring kiss.

John slumped back against the concrete, unsure of his ability to remain standing. Sherlock held him up, pressing his entire body against him. John felt Sherlock's hardness rubbing against his hip. Was he delirious? Or was Sherlock's dick really that large?

Sherlock's lips shifted back to John's neck. His teeth dug in, nowhere near as gently as before. John wanted to swear, but all that came out was a sort of strangled whimper. It was the most exquisite pain he'd ever felt. Hot and tingling, and messy…

And then, Sherlock pulled back abruptly.

John opened his eyes, quite startled.

It was too much. Staring up at that tall detective, with flushed cheeks and wet lips. John felt as if he was about to break in half. But this was madness. Wasn't it?

"Um… well…" John stammered.

Before he could even piece a thought together, Sherlock turned on his heel and began to walk towards the exit. John stared after him.

"Are you coming?" Sherlock's voice echoed around the tiles of the room. And he was out the door.

John mentally shook himself and proceeded to follow.

His head still felt like it was spinning as he climbed into the cab Sherlock had flagged down. They didn't look at each other. Neither of them said a single word.

By the time they got back to the flat, John had nearly made up his mind that he'd imagined the whole thing. He paid the cab driver as Sherlock unlocked the door and swept inside. When John got in and closed the door behind him, there was no sign of the detective whatsoever.

John sighed and climbed the stairs, his leg shaking slightly.

Tea.

Tea would make everything alright. If nothing else, it might restore some notion of normalcy to John's existence. He reached the top of the stairs. His body still seemed to be vibrating.

He passed the bathroom on the way to the kitchen and couldn't resist a quick glance in the mirror. His hair was disheveled, lips swollen, cheeks still slightly pink. And there was a rapidly forming bruise on the left side of his neck.

"Bugger," John barely whispered.

He pulled himself away from the mirror and stormed off to put the kettle on. Unable to decide between angry bewilderment and elation, John simply poured himself a glass of the fine Irish Whiskey he kept at the back of the cupboard.

Tea and Whiskey. Nothing in the world such a combination couldn't set right.

But one glass of Whiskey quickly turned to a few more. And a few more turned into a few too many. It wasn't much help. It only intensified the urge to march down into Sherlock's room and punch him in the face. Or possibly kiss him again.

No. What? There was nothing right about that. Both of those were horrible ideas.

In the end, John managed to stumble to his own bed and strip down to his pants before passing out on top of the covers.

He fell into sweet unconsciousness without realizing he'd left the door to his bedroom wide open.

* * *

Sherlock's brain was a finely tuned machine. All information was mapped out and easily accessible. Useless things were deleted regularly.

But in the past few months, something rather disturbing had happened.

There was a new archive in his mind, and he hadn't purposefully created it. One day it had just appeared, and the harder Sherlock tried to get rid of it, the deeper it's roots seemed to take hold.

The folder was called: _How John Reacts When I Touch Him._

It started with small things. Like how John would lean into him ever so slightly when they were standing in a cramped elevator, or riding on the Tube.

Then it was how John's hand would linger for a moment whenever he was passing Sherlock papers or a cup of tea. Sometimes their fingers would touch. In fact, there was contact more often than not.

As it began to develop into a theory of sorts—Sherlock upped the ante with a few small experiments. Purposefully brushing against John in hallways, or 'accidentally' knocking into him in the close quarters of their flat.

John never jerked away, like most people would when you unconsciously make physical contact. He would just smile and continue with whatever he'd been doing.

The next step revolved around studies in personal space. In open areas, Sherlock would stand different distances away from John. Sometimes with quite a distance between them, other times, much closer than one would ever normally stand next to a friend. He would violate John's personal space. He would stand next to John with mere centimeters between then, and John showed no signs of distress.

In fact, John showed more signs of anxiety the further away Sherlock stood from him. When there was more than two meters separating them, John's eyes would constantly flick sideways, looking at Sherlock, trying to make eye contact.

And it wasn't that John didn't have any sense of personal boundaries.

He never stood so close to anyone else. Not even his ever-rotating cycle of female acquaintances. When John bumped into strangers on the street, he recoiled as a person normally would.

Sherlock noticed all these things—but he was also fairly certain John wasn't aware of them.

It wasn't like he was going to ask. Despite what people seemed to think, Sherlock Holmes was capable of a great deal of tact if he felt inclined towards it. He knew exactly what was acceptable to say and what wasn't. It was just that most of the time he didn't care if he said something inappropriate or jarring.

John was different though.

Upsetting him would mean a difficult living situation, for one thing. And also… if you only have one friend, it's advisable not to do anything to make them hate you. At least, that had been the original idea.

Sherlock sighed, staring up at his ceiling.

The sun was high in the sky and John Watson was still snoring away. The sound carried quite well out of his open bedroom door. Sherlock had been quite surprised to see him sleeping on top of the sheets with nothing but his boxers on. He'd debated closing the door and pretending he hadn't looked. After all, John would never know.

But somehow, it seemed more honest to leave to door open.

Didn't they say honesty was the best policy in these types of situations?

He'd been rehearsing what he would say when John woke up for most of the morning. Nothing sounded right.

After all, how could Sherlock explain things in a reasonable manner if there was no reason behind any of it?

He'd simply looked down at John, terrified, shaking, helpless, on the verge of tears, and he'd reacted on an impulse. He'd gathered John into his arms before there was even a second to think about it.

And oh, the response had been rather exhilarating. The way John completely relaxed into the embrace, letting go of all those invisible burdens he was constantly carrying around. He'd leaned into Sherlock and sighed, and it all felt oddly correct.

But in retrospect, Sherlock also realized that it might not have been the best time for physical contact. John had obviously been in shock from Moriarty's threat to blow them all sky high. And the contact at a moment of distress triggered an emotional reaction. Sherlock had realized this he'd felt John stop shaking. When he'd pulled back to look into his face, and seen it all.

All the things John couldn't or wouldn't ever see on his own.

The lines of pain, and confusion, and desperation. Dilated pupils. Elevated heart rate. How he began breathing faster when Sherlock licked his own lips. How John tilted his head upward, and shivered when Sherlock traced his fingers along the back of his neck.

It was not a rational decision, to close the gap between their lips. It was reckless.

But Sherlock's body was still human. It had desires that he wasn't often consulted about. Sometimes they were strong enough to override all brain function. If he hadn't pulled away from John when he did, they might have ended up shagging right there on the floor, next to the pool, and the jacket full of explosives.

John deserved better than that.

He heard John stirring. Groaning. No doubt coming to terms with a rather nasty hangover. The bottle of whiskey was still sitting on the counter and it was considerably more empty than the last time Sherlock had seen it. John only ever got it out when he was upset or excessively happy.

Sherlock very much doubted it had been a joyful drinking session. Not with all the under-the-breath swearing, and the number of times the teakettle had boiled. One cup of tea calmed John down. But five cups of tea meant he was trying to drown his emotions.

The floorboards creaked.

Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as John stumbled into the daylight wearing nothing but his tartan dressing gown.

"Good afternoon," Sherlock offered, somewhat curtly.

John mumbled something unintelligible and slammed the bathroom door shut. Sherlock simply listened as the shower turned on.

Sherlock figured he had about ten minutes left to think. Twenty if John went straight for the kitchen to make breakfast without acknowledging him.

There was more than enough data to draw a conclusion. He and John were sexually compatible. More than compatible. Explosive. That was the problem. Things would undoubtedly get quite out of hand very quickly.

The detective chewed on his lip slightly as he recalled the numerous disasters of his college years. All the things people guessed wrong about him. It was certainly safer if everyone thought he was asexual. But Sherlock was by no means any sort of virgin. Quite the opposite—he was a sexual deviant by most standards.

No. It was best not to involve John in any of that. He wouldn't even tell him. Because they always started out thinking they wanted it. They would crave his dominance and manipulation. But they all ended up hating him when it was over. He didn't want John to hate him. It was far better not to travel any further down that road.

It was decided.

The bathroom door swung open. John walked out with wet hair, and fresh pink skin. Still wrapped in nothing but his dressing gown, he made his way to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Sherlock waited patiently as he heard eggs sizzle into a pan. The toaster popped. He tried to calm himself and mentally prepare for whatever John might feel like throwing at him.

Ruffled indignation and outright denial seemed like they would be the most likely options.

But when John sat down in the armchair across from him and bit into his toast, Sherlock couldn't do much but stare at the lovely bruise on his neck.

It might have been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

* * *

"What are you staring at?" John bristled.

"Do you actually need me to tell you, or are you just saying that so I'll stop?" A vague hint of a smile twitched across the detective's face.

"Very funny. Before you say anything else cheeky, I think we should have a chat about your smoking."

Sherlock said nothing. Simply raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Well, you tasted like cigarettes," John mumbled. "I thought you'd quit."

No response. Just those frighteningly large blue eyes.

"Right, then." John nodded, and took another bite of toast.

It was all a bit odd. Of course, John was used to eating breakfast by himself. Sherlock hardly ever ate anything. But usually he was lost in his own thoughts. Staring at the ceiling, or into space… somewhere innocuous and non-threatening. But now he was watching John eat so intently, the doctor almost got up and moved to the dining room.

He wanted to. Quite badly. But he felt he'd already chosen the battlefield, and retreating would mean admitting defeat. So he tried to eat his breakfast as normally as possible, though he couldn't escape the feeling of being trapped in a fishbowl.

"So, what's on the schedule for today?" John spoke to the great silence.

"Nothing." Sherlock's reply was quick and almost harsh.

"Should we um… call down and see if there are any new cases?"

"Already did. All boring."

"Ok. Then I suppose I'll be going out for a—"

"No."

"Sorry?" John felt a twinge of anxiety clench in his chest. Also, his face felt like it was getting hotter. He'd really never liked confrontation. He usually went out of his way to avoid it. But there was no avoiding it here, unless he wanted to move out. And that didn't really seem like a good option.

"You won't be going out anywhere for a while. We need to talk."

"All right," John took a deep breath, but the anxious feeling only inflated, "talk."

Of course they went right back to looking at each other silently across the coffee table. Whether this would be the deciding skirmish or just a part of the greater war, John wasn't sure. But he already felt his heartbeat in his ears.

"Fine then. I'll start. I think we should just forget about—whatever that was—last night, and just continue on as normal," John sighed. He didn't like saying it. But really, it was the best option. Sherlock was more a force of nature than a human being. It was a bad idea to put fragile emotions in his hands like it's a bad idea to fling yourself into the path of an oncoming tornado.

"I thought you'd say that."

"Of course you did," John rolled his eyes. "You've probably already had this conversation without me even being here. So it's decided, then?"

"It was."

"Good… what do you mean was?" John felt suddenly apprehensive.

Sherlock seemed to be eying him the way John imagined a hungry wolf might examine a frightened rabbit before snapping it up in one gulp.

The silence was more dangerous than any words could possibly be. But John's brain had fizzled out. He couldn't think of a single thing to say. So he just sat there, fidgeting, ready to bolt downstairs if necessary.

"You really need to stop doing that," Sherlock said oh so slowly and quietly.

"What?"

"Licking your lips. It's wearing on my self control considerably."

John was slightly taken aback. Had he been? Certainly not on purpose. When he was nervous and couldn't think of anything to say, sometimes his tongue would flick out of its own accord and run along his bottom lip.

Oh dear.

"Sorry."

"No need to apologize." Sherlock shifted on the couch slightly, "I was quite enjoying it."

"Sherlock, this is insane. You must realize that? I mean, it was just a kiss. You don't actually want me. You're asexual."

"No."

"But you said—"

"That I was married to my work? Yes. Circumstances change."

"Well then, surely they're other people that you could—"

"There would be plenty of offers if I chose to look into it. But none of them are placed so conveniently, right across the coffee table from me."

John's eyes widened slightly.

This was not good.

"I'm not gay, Sherlock."

"I'm not sure I care, one way or the other, John." Sherlock smiled and somehow that was much scarier than the deadpan stare.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Excellent. This is really great. Fantastic stuff. But I'm going to be done now. I have a headache and this is just a bit too much lunacy to cope with." The doctor began to stand up.

"Sit down!" Sherlock barked.

John sat.

"See?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly, "That's the problem. You're quite submissive."

"I'm not," John huffed. "I've just woken up, I have a dreadful hangover, and you shouted at me."

"Perhaps. But there's not many other people that would fetch me a pen out of my own front pocket. You'll do almost anything I say if I use the right tone."

"Now hold on a minute—"

"Quiet," Sherlock snapped. "You're done talking for now."

"But—"

"Quiet."

John pursed his lips. He was starting to get a bit angry. Though he was used to Sherlock bossing him around and making ridiculous demands, this was a new level. Not Sherlock being rude because he was too busy for common decency. Now, this was a different threshold of power play altogether.

Somehow, John felt that if he allowed it to continue something strange and irrevocable would happen.

But he had no idea how to stop it. If he opened his mouth again, he was afraid Sherlock would silence him in other ways. Ways he didn't need to think about.

Bugger.

His thoughts were already sprinting off to be by that wretched pool again. Shoved up against the concrete wall, being utterly ravaged by Sherlock's violent kisses.

John tried to blink the images away, but it didn't really help.

"Now then, let me explain how this is going to work." Sherlock's tone was in more familiar territory again. Condescending as it was, John vastly preferred it to whatever had been happening a few moments ago. "I'm not going to touch you."

John felt himself relax slightly.

"I'm going to make you want it, but I won't lay a finger on you. And you are not to move from that chair until I stand up and leave the room. Nod to show you understand."

John nodded, wondering exactly what the hell was going on.

"First of all, I'd grab you by the front of your robe, and set you on your feet. Then, of course, the robe would be on the floor, with the belt of it in my hands."

John felt a deep flush creeping up his neck, but fought the urge to say anything.

"Next, I'd tie the belt around your wrists. Tight. It would leave marks. Lovely red ones that would slowly turn purple."

John bit his lip.

God, what was wrong with him?

"Regrettably, those dishes would be swept to the floor, and most likely broken. Because you'd be swiftly lying down on that coffee table, on your back, and I'd fasten your hands to one of the table legs. So you could squirm, but not move much in any particular direction."

John realized his mouth was open, and promptly closed it.

"And then..." Sherlock took a pointed pause, "I'd just leave you there. I'd go about my normal business. Only returning to stroke your cock and make sure you were still hard."

John gulped slightly.

"I don't know how long you'd stay on that table. But I can tell you one thing. When I was ready to untie you, you'd go straight down to your knees, and I'd shove my cock in your mouth. If you resisted in any way, I'd slap you across the face. And I bet you'd like it. So much you might put up a bit of a struggle, just so I'd hit you again."

John was breathing quite heavily. He knew it was twisted. But he had a blatant erection. He was certain Sherlock could see it, as he was wearing such a loose, piece of clothing. And Sherlock was staring at him so intensely.

Bugger.

"But eventually, you'd submit, and I'd come in your mouth, and you would swallow all of it. Then I would walk away, leaving you to satisfy yourself. Feeling humiliated, confused, and still inexplicably aroused. But that's only the beginning of what I could do to you."

The only two thoughts that crossed John's mind were, _clearly he's imagined this before_, and _dear lord why isn't it happening right now_?

"I'd love to fuck you on the kitchen table. Or handcuff you to my bed and not let you get out of it for days. And oh, you'd like it. I could make you scream, John Watson. I could make you feel things you didn't even know existed. But I won't."

It was like the pit of John's stomach was falling out.

"Though I'm sure you'd let me, you'd have a nervous breakdown afterwards. And we can't have that." Sherlock stood, and took long strides towards the doorway at the top of the stairs. He turned around just at the threshold.

"I'm going for a walk, so you can stay here and touch yourself. I highly recommend you cum on top of the coffee table. Don't feel obligated to clean up afterwards either. I'll notice, but Mrs. Hudson won't."

And with that, he was gone. Down the stairs and out the door. John blinked, feeling a bit dizzy. What had just happened?

He stared down at his own erection. Something had to be done about it.

Dear lord.

No. He couldn't. He wouldn't jerk off to thoughts of Sherlock Holmes tying him to a table. That would be too much.

John stood quickly and grabbed his laptop off the far side of the sofa. He bolted into his room, and locked the door behind him. It was mere seconds before he had some proper pornography pulled up on the computer screen. A blonde woman with big breasts, getting railed by some burly young man inexplicably wearing a construction hat.

It would do.

Despite all his efforts to focus on the sighs and moans of the blonde woman with perky tits—when John came he was reliving the moment when Sherlock had bitten into his neck, almost hard enough to draw blood.

Fuck.

This was going to be quite a problem.

* * *

_Special thanks to **wholockian729 **for giving this a nice beta-ing. Chapter two is in the works. With sexy sex._


	2. The Drugs Play

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Far warning: drug references and_ _men pleasuring each other. Sorry I'm not sorry._

* * *

It had been two weeks. Most people would not characterize Sherlock Holmes as a patient man, but he'd sat in 221B Baker street, and shot up the wall, and microwaved eyeballs, and he hadn't sent John a single text.

He'd almost laughed aloud when the day after, _the incident_, John had walked into the living room, announcing that he was going to New Zealand with Sarah for a vacation.

Of course he hadn't protested. No. He'd smiled and said, "have fun," and that had been the end of things. It was a natural step in the game.

Supposed "straight" men were all so boringly similar. After the first advance, they'd run away screaming, only to be dragged back by curiosity. It wasn't a thing to be worried over. No, it was always best to let them go without a word. That way, when they came back, it was _their_ idea. And that made all the difference in the world.

John was due back from the airport within the hour and the tension was building.

Under no circumstances would he make another move until John initiated it. But that didn't mean he couldn't nudge the good doctor in certain directions. Tone of voice, eye contact, body language—Sherlock could tell John exactly what to think without using anything so threatening as spoken words. He could plant ideas, and of course, they would seem entirely organic.

Sherlock sighed slightly.

He leaned back into the sofa cushion and wondered how long it would be. Another week? Another month? The memories he had were already worn out. Played on repeat in every spare moment. John moaning. John licking his lips. John's erection pressing into his leg as they kissed without breathing.

Breathing was boring.

A Holmes man would never stoop to something so pedestrian as masturbation, but the thoughts. Oh the thoughts. Just enough to get him keyed up, anxious, on the edge. Like slapping nicotine patches all up his inner thigh and ripping them off just before he fainted.

But just as he was really beginning to wallow in those over-played, indulgent scenarios—the voice of doubt piped up.

_What if he refuses?_

It was like a deluge of cold water.

True, John's flesh was more than willing. But the man was stubborn. It was one of the things Sherlock admired about him. However, in such a situation, it could prove detrimental to any further progress.

And so, his over-stimulated brain circled round to the same place it had started. Repeating over and over again that John was a bad idea. That he should just leave it alone. Let it all fade to background noise, and pretend like nothing happened.

After all, the possible loss to gain ratio in this particular situation was disturbingly drastic. John was the only roommate that had ever lasted more than a month. Doing anything to scare him off seemed like an unwise financial decision, if nothing else.

Besides, he wasn't entirely annoyed by John's company. That was rare. In fact, he rather enjoyed having the army doctor puttering around the flat. It would be stupid to waste such a good working relationship on the sins of the flesh.

For a brief moment, he thought about the small mint tin he kept hidden underneath John's floorboards. Now would be the time to get it. He'd be wonderfully numb. Completely checked out by the time John arrived.

It had been what had saved him from himself in university—all though nobody else seemed to see it that way. He'd swapped out his sexuality for a mild cocaine habit. A fair trade. Much less collateral damage.

Nobody feels like fucking when they have a floppy dick from railing lines all night long.

Sherlock sighed and slapped a fresh nicotine patch on his arm. That brought it up to four. If the John situation was having this much of an effect on him, clearly it was an experiment better left half-finished.

He stood and walked over to the window, watching the street intently. He stared blankly at the abyss, as the minutes trickled by. After what seemed like forever, a cab finally pulled up. He watched John pay the cab driver, then heard the door swing open downstairs.

He quickly situated himself on the couch and brought his fingers together in front of his chin in a reverent atheist's prayer. The stairs creaked as John struggled up them, carrying his over-packed bag. Clearly Mrs. Hudson wasn't home, or she would be making a fuss.

"Hello, John," Sherlock commented offhandedly as the doctor panted at the top of the stairs.

"Hello. Miss me?"

"You were gone?"

* * *

John was slightly taken aback. Though really, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. It was far from the first time he'd left without Sherlock noticing. Even when he'd distinctly stated that he was going on vacation, he'd had a vague feeling that Sherlock didn't hear him.

"I've been in New Zealand, Sherlock," John sighed.

"Oh, really? Should have realized something was wrong. We're out of food."

"Of course we are," John shook his head.

There were some new bullet holes in the wall, but other than that the flat seemed relatively unchanged. Sherlock must be deep in a case, or some new experiment. He was in the middle of the couch in his classic thinking pose.

"I suppose we'll be getting take away then tonight. I can go shopping in the morning." John said it more to himself than anything. Sherlock was already staring off into space again, immersed in thought.

It was just as well, really.

John hadn't been entirely certain what to expect upon his arrival home, but this was by far the least unsettling scenario that could have unfolded. He'd been slightly worried about opening the door to a naked detective holding a dog collar out for him to try on.

As he dragged his suitcase into his bedroom, part of him felt a bit silly about all the anxiety he'd been feeding ever since his rather hasty departure. Poor Sarah. She'd sounded excited on the phone when he'd suggested the little whirlwind romantic vacation/escape from Sherlock. But she'd gotten into a mood the second she saw the sizeable bruise on his neck, and stayed that way the entire trip.

They'd only had sex twice. Then she'd broken up with him when they still had a week left on the hotel reservations.

All in all, it had rather been a disaster.

John made his way to the kitchen, thinking about a nice cup of tea and possibly a glass of whiskey. He could certainly use it, after traveling with such an unhappy companion for a fortnight. And Sherlock seemed safely occupied in his own brain.

He put the kettle on and got his bottle down from the cupboard. He poured quite a reasonable sized glass, then splashed a bit more in for good measure.

"So she dumped you, then?"

John nearly jumped out of his skin. Sherlock was leaning in the kitchen doorway, staring at him innocently.

"I saw the cab drive away without her in it. Our flat is much closer to the airport. So she declined to share one with you."

"Excellent deduction, as always," John raised his glass sarcastically and took a large swig.

"You should order from the Cantonese place. I'm not in the mood for curry."

And with that, the detective disappeared again. Presumably to resume whatever grand thoughts he'd been having before John arrived.

"Would you like anything particular?" John called to the vacated doorway.

"Surprise me. And you should probably phone it in before you get too drunk." Sherlock's voice drifted smugly from the living room.

"I won't get drunk," John muttered.

But even as he said it, it tasted like a lie.

He rooted around in the kitchen drawer until he found the old crumpled takeout menu and phoned in for two orders of shrimp fried rice. Even though he knew Sherlock probably wouldn't eat, he also ordered soup and egg rolls—because it saddened him to see the refrigerator so empty.

Usually Mrs. Hudson intervened when things got so drastic. But perhaps Sherlock had been in a particularly nasty mood and rejected her attempts to re-stock the cupboards.

After he'd finished phoning in the order, the kettle was boiling. John fixed himself a nice cuppa, and carried it, along with his whiskey, out into the living room. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, applying more nicotine patches to his arm.

Perhaps things were simply back to normal.

After John had gotten a bit more into his glass of whiskey, he even went to fetch his computer, and began to half-heartedly type his thoughts about the country of New Zealand. Not much good to say, considering how miserable he'd been for most of the trip. But the countryside was quite lovely. And the Kiwi accents had been charming.

"It's nice to have you back, John," Sherlock commented quietly.

"Good to be back."

Yes. Everything back to normal, John sighed and relaxed into his chair. But then he made the mistake of glancing up. Sherlock was staring at him with a positively wicked gleam in his eye.

Bugger.

* * *

Of course, there were no interesting cases when Sherlock called down to Scotland Yard for the third day in a row.

After sharing an extremely awkward and mostly silent dinner his first night back, John had been avoiding Sherlock thoroughly. And of course, Sherlock hadn't pressed the issue. It was difficult, but necessary.

Clearly John was sore over being dumped at a time when he needed his heterosexuality affirmed more than ever. So he'd resorted to going out on long walks whenever possible and watching TV shows he knew Sherlock couldn't stand whenever he had to leave his room to eat.

It was probably for the best.

Sherlock wasn't particularly confident in his ability to keep himself under control. The second John had walked into the flat again, it seemed like all his nerves were on fire with the intoxication of fantasy.

He hadn't said anything.

But John had seen or sensed it. Because he immediately became flustered, and then defensive.

Sherlock had tried to make him feel more comfortable, by asking irrelevant questions about the vacation. But that only seemed to make John more agitated. Usually he liked talking about irrelevant things, like football and crap telly.

However, any word that Sherlock breathed seemed to hit a raw nerve. So he'd reverted to silence fairly quickly.

Sherlock had taken to pacing in front of the window frantically, unable to find any decent thoughts to occupy his mind with. Things inevitably deteriorated to thoughts of calling up old drug dealers, or storming into John's bedroom and ordering him out of his clothes.

That would be _lovely_, if not entirely ill-advised.

The poor detective had gone through far too many boxes of nicotine patches in the past seventy-two hours. He was going to send himself into a sickly kind of overdose if he kept up at such a rate.

Something had to break.

John or drugs.

Body or brain.

Sherlock was already pulling out his mobile. Dialing a number he'd sworn so many times he'd never call again.

It picked up on the third ring.

"Dalton. Who's this?"

"Meet me on the corner in twenty minutes."

"Ah, Sherlock. Of course, dear fellow. Anything for you."

And Sherlock hung up quickly. He'd thought about the mint tin under John's floorboards, certainly. But the situation required something far more drastic than a bit of cocaine.

Black tar heroin was the only thing for it.

* * *

John was sitting on the couch, eating pizza, and watching Top Gear when he heard to front door slam open.

He was slightly embarrassed to admit that for once, he'd been the one who hadn't noticed Sherlock leave.

"Alright?" John called as he heard Sherlock bound up the stairs.

"Fine."

Sherlock whirled through the living room and into the kitchen. John heard him rummaging around in all the drawers, making a mess.

Obviously he found what he was looking for fairly quickly. Because he was stomping back through the living room and locking himself into the bathroom before John could so much as blink

He supposed it was nothing to worry about. After all, Sherlock acting strangely was more normal than him trying to instigate mundane conversations about the weather, or god forbid, football.

No, John actually felt himself relax for a moment, before he heard awful retching sounds coming from behind the closed door of the bathroom.

Sherlock was unmistakably vomiting.

He was on his feet and knocking on the bathroom door before he even thought about it. John the Doctor had fully taken the reins up in his brain.

"Sherlock, are you ok?"

No reply. Just the toilet flushing. Running water.

Then John almost tumbled forward directly into him when the door swung open.

He was staring into constricted pupils. Flushed cheeks. The detective's mouth was hanging open. And his chest was rising and falling at a rapid rate.

Sherlock slumped against the side of the doorway, like he couldn't bear to stay standing much longer.

"Can I get by?" His words drawled like water dripping out of a tap.

Panic suddenly bloomed in John's chest. He saw the spoon with lighter burns on it sitting by the sink. Sherlock's sleeves were rolled down, but the cuff was unbuttoned on the left side. Sherlock's belt was sitting on the floor in the far corner of the bathroom, still looped, the perfect size for a tourniquet.

"Sherlock, are you high?" John could feel his heart pounding in his ears.

The detective said nothing. Just stared at John vacantly.

He only reacted when John pulled out his mobile and began dialing a number.

"If you tell Mycroft, I will hurt you," the words still came out slow, and heavy. But John got the feeling that Sherlock meant them wholeheartedly. "It will be at least a few minutes before he gets anyone over here. More if he comes himself. Plenty of time to do something nasty."

And then, Sherlock pushed past John and stumbled towards the couch. He slumped onto it lengthwise, and stared up at the ceiling for a moment before his eyes fluttered shut.

Top Gear was still flickering in the background. John took a few paces towards the couch, and then just stood in the middle of the room, utterly lost.

He hadn't even noticed.

Usually Mycroft warned him when he suspected a danger night. They made appropriate preparations. Watched Sherlock closely. But this… this had come out of nowhere and smacked him in the face.

He looked back down at his mobile. What could Sherlock really do in his current state? John could probably fight him off. Despite being smaller, he had a lot more combat training on his side.

"Give the phone to me." Sherlock was holding out a long, thin hand, his eyes still closed. "I'm not going to enjoy this at all if I have to worry about you calling somebody and causing a fuss."

John stood his ground.

"Give the phone to me," Sherlock was instantly in a seated position, glaring at him.

"No, I can't do that."

"I've asked you nicely twice. Make me ask again, and I'll take it from you."

John held up the mobile defiantly and pressed the 6 key to scroll down to M in his contact list.

For a moment, it was almost like Sherlock was flying. Sailing towards him at an incredible speed. But the illusion was shattered when Sherlock grabbed him around the waist and dragged him to the ground in a tangled heap.

It was quite a struggle.

First Sherlock had John pinned, his wrists above his head, pressing him down with the full length of his body. But somehow, John managed to get one foot flat on the floor, and he arched up, rolling Sherlock onto his back. But before John could pin him all the way, Sherlock wrestled the phone out of his hand, and tossed it across the room.

John tried to stand up, but Sherlock grabbed him around the waist again. Wrapping his two lanky arms around the smaller man like a straight jacket. It was a death grip. John struggled violently, but Sherlock didn't let go.

And of course, the more John struggled, the more friction in caused. The situation was quickly deteriorating. There were intoxicating jolts of arousal shooting through his body. Being this close to Sherlock. Feeling Sherlock's breath against his own face.

Feeling Sherlock's hard dick pressing into his thigh.

John wasn't sure if he was struggling any more, or simply moving because it felt good. It was so dreadfully wrong. But all the blood flow that should have gone to his brain was rushing down into a throbbing erection.

And moving. Thrusting against Sherlock's taught stomach. It was heavenly.

Those dangerous eyes were looking up at him. Pupils dilated. Searching. Waiting. Wet lips. John closed the distance.

He tasted like… cinnamon?

Wait, hadn't he just been throwing up?

John pulled back abruptly. Sherlock was smiling. Oh, fuck.

"Really, John, taking advantage of me while I'm high," the detective bit his lip slightly, "I thought better of you."

"You're not high," John said flatly.

"You're really too easy."

"But how…?"

"Anybody can make retching sounds. Hands over the eyes, when you lift them, your pupils are constricted. Hot water causes the skin to flush…. Shall I go on? Honestly, John. If I were really doing drugs in the bathroom, do you think I'd be so obvious about it?"

John sat back so he was straddling Sherlock's chest.

"Why did you do it?" The good doctor crossed his arms.

"I thought that part was fairly clear. You're only comfortable with your attraction to me in moments of crisis, so I created one."

* * *

John let out a long groan and buried his face in both hands.

It had been rather a dirty trick. With delicious results. But a dirty trick, nonetheless. True, he had called Dalton. He'd even started to walk down to the corner. But he hadn't been able to go through with it. No… not when a better idea crossed his mind the second he'd stepped out the door.

John lowered his hands and tried to stand up. Sherlock tightened his grip.

"Come on, John, are you really angry with me? You were clearly enjoying yourself. After all, I didn't make you kiss me."

John let out a long sigh, and avoided eye contact. He was obviously struggling with what to do next.

"Of course I won't force anything," Sherlock said quickly. Upon further reflection about _the incident_ he'd decided that even though John had a blatant submissive streak, it was something he was embarrassed about. It was off limits for now. Or at least until Sherlock could handcuff him to something, so that easy escape wasn't an option.

"In fact," Sherlock released the grip he'd been holding John in so tightly, "I'll just lie here. You can do whatever you want. You can even run away. I won't stop you."

Sherlock stretched his arms out to the side like he was lying on an invisible crucifix, and he waited. Not moving. Barely breathing. Just staring up at John.

John continued to sit on his chest for a few minutes, just taking deep breaths. Probably trying to will his erection away. But it didn't seem to be working out too well for him. He was still obviously very aroused.

"John—"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up," John barked.

The good doctor was still breathing rather heavily.

"So let me get this straight. You pretended to have a relapse, so you'd have an excuse to tackle me, and… what? Press up against me until I did something stupid? Is that about right?"

"Well it sounds bad when you say it like that," Sherlock offered coyly.

"Do you understand why I'm angry? That's not at all an appropriate—or even rational thing to do. In fact, that might be the most insane thing I've ever heard of."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Do you know what normal people do, Sherlock? They go out to dinner. They go to a cinema. They don't pretend to do drugs in the bathroom and then tackle their flat mates."

Sherlock barely bit back his retort. _We're not normal John. Would you really rather I ask you out to the cinema? Don't lie. You loved this._

John stood up.

The game was on.

Sherlock got to his knees, and gazed up at John from that level. He knew _exactly_ how attractive he looked, with his clothes all rumpled. His moist lips parted into a small O. Kneeling right the level of John's cock. Close enough for John to feel the heat of his breath.

"Come on!" John groaned.

Slowly, sensuously, Sherlock ran his tongue along his bottom lip. Never breaking eye contact.

John's breath caught.

He was hooked. Struggling, with the very last dregs of self-control. It was too much. He folded.

His fingers dug into Sherlock's curls, as the detective swiftly loosed John's belt buckle. Button undone, zipper down, long fingers reaching into John's pants.

_Oh hello._

Sherlock pulled John's cock out into the cool air of the flat. Not too long, but quite thick. It seemed oddly appropriate.

He flicked his tongue out, just to barely taste the dribble of pre-cum pooling at the tip of John's cock. And the good doctor shuddered. Bit back a small moan.

Sherlock engulfed him entirely, so his nose was pressed into John's sweater. He smelled vaguely like PG Tips.

But there wasn't time to linger.

Sherlock hollowed his cheeks, and sucked hard. The tip of John's cock was hitting the back of his throat. He swallowed around it and John gasp-cried.

John's fingers tugged on Sherlock's hair. Sharply. His hips jerking unconsciously. Sherlock surrendered. Allowing John to fuck his mouth. Wildly. There would be other times to show off. Right at that moment, it was more important to push John as close to the edge as possible without actually letting him fall.

Manipulation by a seeming act of supplication. Classic. Basic. But damn it all if it wasn't effective.

By the way John was breathing—nearly hyperventilating—Sherlock knew it wouldn't take very long.

"Fuck," John moaned. "Sherlock, I'm going to—"

And Sherlock pulled back instantly.

* * *

John let out a small whine.

He tried to wrap his fingers around his throbbing erection to finish the job, but Sherlock swatted his hand away.

The detective was pulling John down to the floor. Gently, but insistently.

John didn't have a single ounce of energy left to put up a struggle. In fact, he almost sighed with relief as Sherlock sprawled out on top of him once again. This time with his trousers around his thighs.

He shivered as the heat of Sherlock's pulsing cock made contact with his own. It felt so _good_. How was that possible? It should never, ever stop.

Before he had more than a millisecond to think about the state of things, Sherlock's tongue was in his mouth. Fucking him. There was no other word for it. Completely and utterly dominating the kiss, violating him in the best ways possible.

Sherlock's teeth grazing against John's bottom lip.

Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around both of their cocks. And oh, the feverish thrusting. John was miles away from coherent. He probably should have been thankful Sherlock was kissing him so sinfully. Otherwise he might have been babbling something idiotic.

He felt the heat coiling in his belly. The static electricity building up through his entire body.

_Dear, sweet, lord in heaven._

Sherlock bit down violently on John's neck and that did it.

John was coming. He was the embodiment of orgasm. Every single muscle contracted and released at the same time. He jerked, and shuddered, and then he was incapable of any motion whatsoever.

He just lay there as Sherlock panted for a few more moments before letting out a quiet grunt and collapsing halfway on top of him.

His jumper was covered in jizz now, wasn't it?

Brilliant.

"Well, shit," John exhaled on a vague whisper.

"Indeed."

"Don't think this gets you out of anything. I'm still angry at you."

"For what?"

"Bloody hell if I remember. Can't I just be generally cross? You do a lot of upsetting things."

"I suppose."

"I need a shower."

"I'll join you."

"_No. _Get off me."

"I think you got those words in the wrong order."

"What?" John spluttered.

"I think you meant, _get me off_ again. Please, Sherlock. That was so good." The detective had already fallen into his normal sarcastic tone.

"I'll hit you."

"That would make things much more interesting."

John sighed and pushed Sherlock off. He did not, however, stand up right away. He lay on the floor for a few minutes. Soaking in the afterglow.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad we're speaking again."

John snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Well, you are quite persistent."

"You like it."

"Shut up."

* * *

_Once again, I send out numerous thanks to __**wholockian729 **__for being my second pair of eyes._

_Your reviews, follows and favorites make me exceedingly happy inside. This is shaping up to be a weekly serial. Tune in next Wednesday for a guest appearance from Sherlock's Riding Crop. Also, I solemnly promise that John Watson will get handcuffed to a bed :D_

_Want a say in what happens? Audience participation is always fun, isn't it?_

_**This week's contest:**__ Decide what Sherlock and John's safe word is. So far, my favorites are Marzipan and Chamomile. But it's up to you. Tell me what you want in the reveiws. You can suggest anything that strikes your fancy. The safe word that gets the most votes by Tuesday evening will appear in next week's update._


	3. Vatican Cameos

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Fair warning: gratuitous kinky sex between men. This chapter is almost exclusively smut. You're welcome. This is** dub-con**. John has a safeword, and doesn't end up saying it, but things get a bit intense. Don't read if it will trigger you._

* * *

John was really quite cute when he slept. True, he was drooling on the pillow, and smelled like stale booze. But it didn't seem to make him any less adorable.

It almost made Sherlock forget exactly why he was standing next to John's bed holding a pair of padded handcuffs and a riding crop.

Almost.

Everything had been fine. Pleasant even. It had been a few days since Sherlock had put on his little "drugs" play. There hadn't been any further discussion of it. John had been acting normal. They'd even gone down to Scotland Yard to look at a few cases.

That's where it had all gone wrong.

He'd met _Linda_.

Pretty little blonde thing. New hire at the reception desk. John had displayed an almost absurd interest in her. Lingering. Chatting her up. Slipping her a number.

Sherlock had assumed it was nothing to worry about. The poor girl seemed a bit slow, even by normal standards, and was far too young. But then John had put on his _going out on a date_ jacket, and tried to say he was meeting some of the "lads" for drinks.

Sherlock had been proud of his composure. He'd simply said, "have a nice time with _Linda"_ and went back to looking over the crime scene photos Lestrade had given him.

John had left rather quickly.

Of course, Sherlock had given no protest. Hadn't even waited up in the living room. He'd stayed downstairs, on his bed. Even though he heard John stumbling up the stairs at three in the morning clearly enough, he hadn't made any noise to alert John to the fact he was still awake.

But now it was almost noon. And the game was still on, after all. He couldn't very well let some little tart make off with the good doctor just when things were starting to get interesting.

No. Rules had to be established.

Quick as a flash, Sherlock had the handcuffs looped around a bedpost and snapped around John Watson's wrists. John awoke with a foggy start.

"What the bleeding—"

Sherlock tapped John's stomach with the riding crop. This caused an abrupt silence.

"Good morning, John," he smiled, "how are you feeling?"

"Sherlock, what's going on? Why am I in handcuffs?" John blinked at him sleepily, tugging at his restraints to test them. They were quite secure.

"Oh, I think you know very well why."

"What?"

"Shall I help you remember?"

The crop whistled through the air and landed square across the top of John's thighs. John let out a loud yelp.

"Sherlock! What the fuck?"

"My you have a dirty mouth this morning. I think I'll have to clean it out with my cock. But not just yet."

Sherlock traced the crop up John's torso, making the good doctor shiver.

"Hmm…. now what's a good one… how about Vatican Cameos?"

"Vatican Cameos?" John just stared helplessly.

"A safe word, John. You've heard of that, haven't you? Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems like a thing you wouldn't normally scream out in the throes of passion."

"I think you should unlock these handcuffs right now, Sherlock." John was starting to get a wide, panicked look in his face. He was only just realizing the gravity of the situation.

"Oh, don't be boring. We haven't even _started _the fun yet. So tell me… how was _Linda_?"

"Is that what this is about? Jesus. We just had a few drinks. That was it—"

The crop sailed down again, this time landing across John's abdomen. He let out a small cry.

"That bloody hurts, stop it!"

"You know how to make it stop if you really want to."

"Vatican—"

Sherlock leaned down and kissed John before he could finish the word. The doctor's body went slack. Sherlock pushed his tongue between John's lips. The man tasted of malt liquor, but it wasn't entirely off-putting. He pulled back slowly, once he was sure John had relaxed a bit.

"Now did you really mean that?" The detective smiled smarmily. "When I say fun, my dear Watson, we really will have _fun_. But I suppose if you're absolutely sure that I should unlock the handcuffs…" he paused for a few moments, "no? Didn't think so."

Sherlock stood back, to admire his prize. John looked quite good. Shirtless, with his arms stretched up over his head. Helpless. Still in surprisingly good shape, despite all the pizza and beer. But something had to be done about those dreadful flannel pajama bottoms. Immediately.

Sherlock set the riding crop on the bedside table, and pulled down the waistband of John's pajamas. John lifted his hips agreeably. _The man's a natural_. Sherlock smirked to himself.

John was already quite hard, in clear evidence that he did in fact like what was happening.

Oh, the things Sherlock was going to do to him.

He'd cleared the schedule.

Today was "Break-in John Watson" day.

* * *

John felt remarkably light headed.

He was thirsty, his brain was pounding, and he was more than a bit confused. It still smarted, where Sherlock had hit him. There were going to be large red lines on his body for the rest of the day. Possibly bruises.

But maybe the hitting was done with

Sherlock was just standing over him, staring lecherously. He was wearing one of his nicer suits. With that purple silk shirt John had always liked.

"Have you ever had anything up your arse, John?"

John was sure a rather startled expression crossed his face.

Dear god.

Was Sherlock going to try to fuck him?

"John, I asked you a question. You should answer promptly unless you want me to hit you again."

"No. I haven't," John said quickly.

"Nothing? Not even a finger?"

"Nope."

"You're lying to me."

John felt his face go slightly pink.

"When you lie, you won't look me in the eye. You start breathing faster. You sweat a little bit." Sherlock had picked up the riding crop again and was using it to gently stroke John's inner thigh. The feeling was exquisite.

"Fine. I dated this girl at Uni—and I don't know."

"Did you let her fuck you with a strap on?" Sherlock bit his lip slightly.

"God no, nothing like that. She just liked to… you know… with her fingers."

"Better, but that's still not all." The tip of the riding crop brushed across John's cock and he let out a small whimper. "What about when you touch yourself?"

John's cheeks were the shade of tea roses. How could Sherlock possibly know that? Had he… watched? That was quite a disturbing thought. John tried to push it out of his mind promptly.

"I suppose admission by a lack of reply is acceptable," Sherlock shrugged. "I'm going to fuck you today, John."

"You most certainly are not."

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. Because he just continued talking.

"I could settle for fucking your mouth. But really, I'd love to shove my cock deep inside that mostly virgin arse of yours."

"Vati—"

And Sherlock's hand was around his dick. Slowly stroking it.

This really wasn't fair.

"Sherlock," John could already hear the strain in his own voice, "I think it defeats the purpose of a safe word if you keep stopping me from saying it."

"Are you really complaining?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

His hands.

Beautiful violinist's hands, with long, quick fingers. They were playing John like an instrument.

"You really needn't worry." Sherlock licked his lips. "By the time I'm done, you'll be begging me to fuck you."

The hand that had been pleasuring John so wonderfully, trailed away up his torso. John tried not to look too disappointed.

But then Sherlock was nudging John's legs apart. At first John didn't really comply. But a swift tap from the crop, and he stopped struggling immediately. Then the detective kneeled on the bed and situated himself between John's legs.

There was something vaguely erotic about the fact that Sherlock was still fully clothed. It made John feel particularly powerless. Even more than the handcuffs. Sherlock's fingers gently ran down the sides of John's rib cage, his eyes drinking in every detail of the smaller man's naked body. And the poor doctor could do nothing but imagine what wonders lay beneath that perfectly tailored suit.

It occurred to him that he hadn't even seen Sherlock with his shirt off.

The detective slowly slid down onto his stomach, with his legs hanging off the edge of the bed, and his mouth at the level of John's aching cock. It seemed to remember those wonderful lips, as it was throbbing.

"Now then," Sherlock half-raised an eyebrow, "this seems like it would be an excellent way to distract you."

"Distract me from what?"

Sherlock gave the head of John's cock a wet, sloppy kiss, and John let out a loud groan.

He didn't even care anymore.

What was the point in fighting it?

Sherlock took a small clear bottle out of his pocket, and squeezed its contents onto his fingers. John tensed. But then Sherlock was licking his cock base to tip, and it was really quite difficult to worry about anything.

Oh god.

Sherlock took John all the way into his mouth, and John felt like he couldn't breathe.

It was so good in there.

Warm, wet, velvety...

But then something cold and sticky was brushing between John's arse cheeks, and his body jolted.

"What are you doing?" John demanded.

Instead of replying, Sherlock let the tip of John's cock hit the back of his throat and swallowed around it repeatedly.

_Damn him._

_Don't lose concentration_.

_You're better than this, John Watson._

But as it turns out, he wasn't. He had already started to thrust into Sherlock's mouth. He couldn't help it.

Perhaps a minute later, the cold wetness was back. Circling around John's arsehole. Not quite pushing in but teasing. John tried to pull away, but that just pushed him further into Sherlock's mouth, and the resulting feeling was beautiful

"Sherlock, stop it," John whined half-heartedly.

The detective raised his head, and John's cock immediately ached as the sudden cold air of the room replaced the feeling of Sherlock's mouth.

"You don't want me to suck your dick?" The detective smiled innocently.

"Not that, the other thing."

"That's happening either way. The blowjob was more of a courtesy."

"But—"

"John Watson," Sherlock growled "either submit to me right now, or tell me to leave."

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"I'm going to interpret your not saying anything as a sign to continue. In fact, I rather like it better that way. If you say anything else, it better be 'Vatican Cameos' or I'm going to beat you until you bleed."

John bit down on his lip.

But Sherlock did not go back to sucking his cock.

Nope.

Instead he sat back on his heels, and watched as his finger was once again began circling John's hole. Then it was pressing inside.

It burned. No worse than it usually did. But still not an altogether pleasant sensation. The only time John ever did this, was when he was almost about to come. And then, still only sometimes. Without the distracting stimulation, he could focus all his attention on the burning sensation, and he didn't really like it.

But then a tiny moan pushed it's way out of John's mouth when Sherlock's finger brushed against his prostate.

"Ah, found it," the detective smiled. "Now the real party starts."

* * *

Sherlock stroked across John's prostate again and appreciated the way his lips parted and his eyes became unfocused.

Unable to resist, Sherlock added another finger.

John grunted, but didn't say anything.

Obviously Sherlock's threats were rather effective. As much as he would like to give his captive a proper whipping—it seemed a bit early to spring such a thing on him.

As Sherlock's fingers thrust against John's sweet spot over and over again, he let his other hand wander. Dragging his nails across different parts of the flesh to see what would get a reaction.

He left quite a few claw marks on the sides of John's torso, because it made the good doctor squirm, and it was delicious to watch. But he really struck gold when he pinched one of John's raised, pink nipples.

The doctor let out a shuddering gasp.

"Like that, do we?" Sherlock repeated the action, and got a similar result.

John was mouthing something noiselessly.

Sherlock debated picking up the riding crop and giving him a good smack for being defiant.

But it looked like he was saying _oh, god, please don't stop, that's amazing._

His cock was leaking pre-cum.

Sherlock shoved another finger into him, and John let out a keening little whine. It was beautiful. He was so responsive. But this couldn't go on. It looked like he was right on the edge already. No. He couldn't be blowing his load all over the place quite yet.

Sherlock withdrew all of his fingers, and John almost sobbed.

"Really, John, you're quite the wanton little slut."

"Sherlock—"

_Smack_.

The riding crop landed on the side of John's right thigh. John flinched, but bit his lip to keep from making a noise.

"Forgetting the rules already? My, my, we've got a lot of work to do."

Sherlock slid down the bed, and onto his feet.

John was panting.

Flushed bright pink.

Oh yes. This was definitely an image for the archive.

Sherlock's footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor. He walked downstairs and into the living room, picking up the small, black metal chest he'd set on the coffee table earlier that morning. It was rather heavy. But when Sherlock moved, it's contents clattered pleasantly.

He made his way back into John's bedroom. The doctor was still in an exaggerated state of raw arousal. But the apprehension was back. Oh so tense. Every nerve in his body buzzing. That was exactly how Sherlock wanted it.

"Now then, three fingers is not going to get you ready for the main event, so to speak," Sherlock commented brightly. "I have a rather large cock and if I tried to shove it in you right now, it would probably feel like I was trying to split you in two. Luckily, I'm more than prepared for these types of situations."

Sherlock opened the lid of the box and began rummaging around in it. Over the years he'd developed quite a collection of toys. But he always used the same one to break-in virgins.

His long fingers closed around the slim, steel dildo. Small. Only about twelve centimeters long. However, there was an undeniable aesthetic value to the cold metal.

"Open your mouth, John."

He held the metal dildo right in front of John's lips.

"Don't worry. It's clean. Worst it will taste of is soap."

John narrowed his eyes.

"It's for your benefit. If you don't warm it up, it's going in cold."

The cheeky bastard still didn't open his mouth.

"Oh John," Sherlock shook his head in mock exasperation, "you really aren't a very quick learner are you?"

Sherlock lazily squirted more lube into his hand and slicked it onto the dildo. Then, with a quick motion he shoved the thing halfway up John's arse. The doctor let out a harsh breath, as if the wind had just been knocked out of him.

"When you don't obey direct orders, I hurt you. Clear?"

John gave no response. Sherlock took it as an invitation to press at the base of the dildo until it was seated fully inside John. The doctor squirmed, and panted, and let out small painful sounds. It was glorious.

Sherlock loosed his belt buckle. The clattering noise seemed to attract John's attention. But instead of looking worried, he looked hungry.

The top button of Sherlock's dress trousers loosed easily. And then the zip. No pants. But he didn't undress any further. He let the black cloth hang loosely about his hips, as he pulled his dick out and stroked it gently.

John's pupils were dilated moons.

Sherlock smiled, and kneeled on the side of the bed once again. This time he threw a leg over John's chest, so he was straddling him. He maneuvered up the bed until the tip of his cock was well within reaching distance of John's mouth.

"Open up."

John's jaw dropped instantly, though it was hard to say if he was following orders or had reverted to a state of shock.

Sherlock traced the head of his cock along John's cheek, leaving a tiny slug-trail of moisture. It was difficult to restrain himself. But slowly, gently even, he pushed into John's mouth. Stopping before it was very far in.

John's tongue swirled inquisitively, and Sherlock shuddered.

He'd always had a kink for novices. No matter how sloppy, and awkward they were—the sense of timid wonder and exhilaration was something very few people could fake. John's cheeks hollowed, and he began to bob his head slightly. Experimenting with depth. Sherlock always loved a good experiment.

His fingers intertwined with John's sandy hair. Grasping gently, guiding him slightly. Encouraging him to take more.

"Get it nice and wet, John," Sherlock purred. "Depending on how well you behave, this might be the only lube you get before it goes in your arse."

John moaned around his cock and Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head.

This was going to be amazing.

* * *

Poor John almost felt like he was going to choke. And Sherlock's dick wasn't even that far into his mouth—proportionally. The thing was a monster. Nineteen centimeters? Twenty? God forbid, it might be bigger.

He could tell Sherlock was being careful. He certainly wasn't fucking John's mouth with wild abandon. Just undulating slightly, never pushing in too deep. Never quite hitting the back of John's throat.

"Oh, I'm going to turn you into _such_ a cock-slave," Sherlock breathed huskily. "Your mouth is perfect."

John hated himself for loving it.

This was objectively awful on so many levels.

But he'd accepted the fact that he no longer had any semblance of control over the situation. He was too keyed up. The madness simply had to continue. Let the fever run its course.

And John had quite the fever. All he had to do was think about the way Sherlock had almost made him come using only two fingers, and it made him sweat kettle water.

Sherlock's grip on John's hair tightened slightly as he pulled back.

John was somewhat baffled at the _missing_ sensation when Sherlock's cock popped out of his lips with a wet smack.

The detective didn't say anything. He sat back and reached for the flared base of the dildo that was still inside John, and began to fuck the good doctor slowly with it. John coped with the sensation of incredible fullness. It wasn't entirely objectionable. Occasionally, it would hit his prostate at a nice angle, and force the breath out of him. His lungs would crush like paper bags, and the momentary sensation of complete breathlessness was lovely.

Sherlock was tracing his fingers across John's collarbone. Then gently squeezing John's neck. Not enough to constrict airflow. No. It seemed more like a suggestion of something that could be. Something wonderful. John's brain felt like it was doing barrel rolls inside his skull.

"I think you're ready." Somehow, Sherlock's voice had reached a register lower than anything John had ever heard before.

It was like Sherlock's words rumbled through his bones in a miniature earthquake.

The detective slid down John's body, and once again kneeled between his legs. He drew the dildo out slowly. John felt his muscles clenching around it, and tried to relax. It popped out, and was set aside. John heard the tear of a foil packet, and was oddly grateful as Sherlock rolled a rubber onto himself. Sherlock seemed to be in a generous mood, because he began slicking up liberally with lube.

John thought about speaking, but his own sense of self-preservation prevented the words from coming out.

_Please undress. I want to see you._

Sherlock was hovering over him. Holding himself up above John with one arm, and positioning his dick with the other. John felt the tip of it pressing against him, and tried not to tense up.

"Relax John," Sherlock's voice rumbled through him again, turning his brain to jelly.

John took a deep breath.

And Sherlock pushed inside him.

Sharp gasp.

It was agony. The head was barely in, and John already felt stretched to his limits. Fire. He was on fire. But Sherlock stayed perfectly still. Gently stroked John's jaw line.

"You're so tight," it was a faint whisper. "It feels incredible."

John felt his ribcage rising and falling at a speed bordering on hyperventilation.

"Breathe slowly. _Relax_."

Sherlock's lips ghosted over his, and John raised his head to meet them. Soft. Gentle. Comforting, almost. Sherlock's tongue wandered languidly into John's mouth, drawing out a tiny suggestion of a whimper.

And the detective pushed in deeper. Only slightly. Just the amount that John could handle without screaming.

"You're doing very well. Just keep breathing. The pain will go away soon."

And Sherlock began thrusting, ever so slightly. Further in, then back out. Then a little further in. Slowly. Calmly.

John was making noises that he'd never known to exist.

Though he wasn't sure if they were out of pain, or that strange warm aching feeling that was slowly spreading through him. The ache was almost pleasurable.

Every time he was sure that Sherlock must be all the way in, there was more. It was unending. Stretching John further and further. He was always sure he couldn't take it. He was completely full. And then somehow, Sherlock pushed further.

The fire was fading into a simmering burn. He felt incredibly stretched out. But no longer as if he were about to break.

Sherlock's balls finally brushed against him.

He was all the way in.

Panting.

Sweating slightly.

He stilled completely for a moment, as if appreciating the feeling of being completely buried inside John's tight little body. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's torso, almost on instinct.

And then the detective began to move. Still slowly, at first, but then he established a driving rhythm. Not too fast. But powerful. It had John hyperventilating again, but for quite different reasons.

The ache was shooting through him in lighting bolts. Melting his brain. Sherlock's jacket brushing against his stomach was causing an enormous buildup of static electricity.

Deeper. Harder. Sherlock maintained a steady pace, but somehow each thrust seemed more intense. John's skin was tingling. Buzzing. He felt drunk. When any part of the detective brushed against him, it deepened the feeling of intoxication.

Sherlock shifted to the side slightly, and grabbed onto John's left leg. He lifted it so John's knee was over his shoulder. The change in angle did something wonderful.

Every thrust was smashing into John's prostate.

"John Hamish Watson," Sherlock growled in his ear, "your arse is fantastic. And from now on, I'm going to use your body for my pleasure whenever I feel like it."

John's breath caught.

_Please_.

"Whenever I get bored, I'm going to tie you down and fuck the cum out of you."

John was shaking.

As Sherlock drove into him, his muscles were contracting. Becoming tighter and tighter. The tension was building too rapidly, but John was sure he would die if it stopped.

He might die anyway.

It would be worth it.

Sherlock turned his head and licked the skin on John's thigh. Nibbled it. John made several inhuman sounds. In some dim part of his brain, he hoped Mrs. Hudson wasn't home.

John realized that he was bucking back against Sherlock. Matching his movements. Increasing the tension. It was consuming him.

He might be crying.

Gasping.

Sherlock's hand snaked between them.

_Touch it. Please touch it. Oh god. So close. That would be it._

But instead, Sherlock's fingers wrapped around John's neck and squeezed. Stopping the airflow.

The tension collapsed into a bizarre floating feeling. Like he was almost detached from his body.

And then he came.

* * *

John's muscles clenched around Sherlock's cock beautifully. And the detective looked down to watch him spasm. Dick jerking. Jizz everywhere. Had there ever been a more lovely sight?

Sherlock let go of his neck. The good doctor's breathing was ragged. Almost broken.

Time to hurry things along.

Sherlock pounded into the tightness, staring at the mess John had made of his suit. Perhaps he'd think of some consequences for the dry-cleaning bill later. But right now it was damn sexy. He couldn't really be mad about it.

He sought out John's lips. Completing the connection.

Three.

Two.

One.

Sherlock shivered, and emptied himself into the warm heat of John's body before collapsing on top of him.

There was absolute silence save for their collective heavy breathing.

"I suppose you have permission to talk again," Sherlock sighed.

"Will you undo the handcuffs now?"

Sherlock rooted around in his jacket pocket for a moment before his fingers closed around the key. As much as he'd like to leave John like this, he knew the poor doctor's shoulder had to be hurting by now.

He turned the key in the lock, and John's hand's fell down to his sides. Sherlock expected to be pushed off, but John just let him lay there. Sprawled across him like an over-large blanket. They stayed like that for a while. Sherlock was almost nodding off to sleep when John broke the silence.

"I could really go for a cuppa," his voice was small, and tired.

"I'll get it," Sherlock rolled off him, tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping up.

"Really?"

"Yes, I imagine you'll be having some trouble with walking," Sherlock snorted.

He slid off the bed, and walked out into the living room. The flat was quiet. The air was still heavy with the smell of sweat and sex.

He went through the motions of putting the kettle on, but his mind was wandering far away.

There was a strange sensation in his chest. A heaviness almost. Was it guilt? No. He'd felt twinges of that on a few occasions. This was different.

It wasn't anger. Nor frustration. He had no reason to feel sad, so it wasn't that either.

What the bloody hell was it?

_Sentiment_…

Sherlock shut the door on the rest of that thought by pressing the back of his index finger against the hot kettle.

* * *

_Special thanks to __**wholockian729 **__for beta-ing so wonderfully._

_Your reviews, follows and favorites bring me unreasonable joy. The winner of last week's comment contest was "Vatican Cameos" as it appeared in this chapter._

**_This week's contest:_**_ I've written chapters from only John's point of view, and only Sherlock's point of view. Decide which one will be posted first. The option with the most votes by tuesday evening, will be put up. But don't worry. You'll read them both eventually._

_Tune in next Wednesday and there shall be smut!_


	4. Butterflies

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_ Fair warning: Underage sex (Sherlock is fifteen). It is not graphically described, but it's there. Also, Mycroft and Sherlock's weird psudo-sexual arguments and power games. If those things bother you, take comfort in the fact that you're a better person that me. But maybe don't read this._

* * *

It had been almost a week since Sherlock had taken John's virginity. He was sprawled out on the couch, looking up at the ceiling, playing the memory of what John looked like in the throes of orgasm over and over. He was hard.

Really, it was probably a good thing John had gone out.

Of course, the good doctor was in the middle of a nervous breakdown, and Sherlock had been trying his best not to get involved with it.

But the temptation to break down John's door and shag him silly was growing with each passing day. Sherlock didn't know how much longer he could take it.

"So, are you going to tell me what you've done to poor Mr. Watson, or shall I deduce it from the smirk on your face and the awful state of this apartment?"

Mycroft was standing in the doorway, looking around with a wrinkled nose. Sherlock elected to continue lying on the couch, but quickly let his smile slump into a blank expression.

"You know, most people knock, or ring a door bell before entering someone's home. Some of them even call ahead," he drawled lazily.

"Silly conventions. I knew you were in."

"What do you want?"

"A cup of tea would be lovely."

Mycroft took several long strides and set himself down in John's armchair, so he was adjacent to Sherlock.

"Where is Mr. Watson?" Mycroft smiled smarmily.

"Out. But of course, I don't need to tell you that."

"Do you know where?"

"No. But if I really cared, I could hack into his mobile's GPS."

"What if he's at coffee with an ex-girlfriend?"

"He's not. If any of them had been returning his calls, he wouldn't be in such a ghastly mood."

"Ah, so you two have been fighting," Mycroft laughed, obviously pleased.

"He's been fighting. I've been working on a case."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft shook his head, "why do you keep picking out toys that are so breakable? The poor man has PTSD and a downright unhealthy martyr complex. You're going to destroy him before the month is out."

"John's stronger than you give him credit for."

"Everyone has a weakness. You'd better stop prodding at his before he finds yours and turns the tables on you."

"I don't have any weaknesses."

"I can think of at least five. Shall I list them?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked over to regard his brother carefully. Usually by this point he was demanding that Sherlock work on some inane little problem—for the sake of England. Problems Mycroft could very well solve himself. They both knew it was always about power. Because the only time Mycroft ever popped up was when he felt he was losing control.

So what was it this time?

Oh.

"You're jealous." Sherlock began pressing his fingertips into his own wrist, ghosting out the first few notes to _Liebesfreud._

"Of what? A funny little army doctor with a psychosomatic limp? Don't be ridiculous."

Oh yes. That was definitely it. He wasn't even here because of John. Well, maybe a little bit. He never liked it when Sherlock got a new toy. He always wanted his turn to play with it—try to steal it away.

But really, he was here about Moriarty. Ah well. Best to let him play out whatever speech he had prepared. See how good the bluff is.

"Although your habit of converting straight men is utterly adorable," Mycroft grimaced, "I can't help but voice my concern for your well-being. John is used to being the dominant partner in a sexual relationship. He's going to want it soon enough, and you're much too stubborn to give it willingly."

"So?"

"Don't play coy. For the life of me, I can't understand why the two of you are so sickeningly co-dependant—but I'm not sure you'll be able to function if he moves out."

"I've lived alone before. I'll be fine living alone again. But in all honesty, I don't think John will be leaving anytime soon. You haven't seen him chained to a bed. He's absolutely mad for it. Moaning, writhing, panting… taking his virginity was marvelous. His arse should be declared a national treasure."

Mycroft pursed his lips. Sherlock loved how easy it was to torment him.

"Talk all you want, Sherlock. When reality hits you, I won't pick up the pieces."

"I wouldn't want you to," the detective sneered.

Then Mycroft was on his feet with the tip of his umbrella pressed into Sherlock's throat.

"You're going soft," he said sweetly, "I can see it."

Sherlock pushed the umbrella away and stood slowly.

"You're the one who's going soft. You've gained five pounds. And you can drop the pretense, Mycroft. This is hardly about John. You're upset because I've finally found somebody who's even better than you are…"

Something sour flickered across Mycroft's face. Sherlock had got him with that one. Why stop when you're winning?

"Well, you're right to be worried," Sherlock bit his lip slightly, "Moriarty's little game did quite _excite _me."

"He's a psychopath," Mycroft said evenly.

"Yes. But the danger is oh so sensual."

"He'll kill you."

"He'll try. But that's part of the dance. There's real stakes, Mycroft. He means it. The man wants to _destroy _me." Sherlock was breathing heavily on purpose.

"Are you willing to risk the lives of everyone around you to get off, Sherlock?" Mycroft talked around the taste of sour grapes. "The man's already tried to hurt Mr. Watson once. He'll try again."

That was a low shot. But Sherlock didn't let it show. He never did.

"I know you're not afraid for John's well-being, Mycroft. No… you're afraid of losing control. What you have to realize is you haven't been in control. Not for _years._ Certainly, you have me set up in a nice little apartment, doing respectable work, with plenty of people to watch me. But deep down, you know that I could vanish at any moment. I could be out on the streets, sucking strange cocks for cocaine, and it _eats_ away at you. You hate it."

Sherlock took a step closer, inflating his chest, standing tall and intimidating as he possibly could.

"However, there's something that scares you even more than the drugs. It's the idea that I've found someone who can push all the buttons you're too afraid to touch."

The two Holmes men stared at each other.

These kinds of arguments had been what stirred the first flickers of elation deep in Sherlock's belly. They were bizarre. Pseudo sexual. Because Mycroft had never touched him. They never even hugged. Physical contact was for people who were too dull to duel mentally.

* * *

It had started when Sherlock was fairly young. Mycroft was away at school for much of Sherlock's childhood, but whenever he came home for the holidays, or on summer breaks, life would become exponentially more complicated.

The first real battle was over the state of Sherlock's hair. He'd been seven. Perhaps eight. Mummy liked to keep it long, because she thought it was pretty. Though even at that age, Sherlock suspected she allowed his hair to grow down to his shoulders because she'd always wanted a little girl and never gotten one.

"It's ridiculous!" Mycroft had shouted and raved. "I won't have a Holmes man walking around, looking like a little fairy!"

At that stage of things, Mummy was rather deep into her sedatives. So she'd mostly handed Mycroft a pair of scissors because it was the quickest way to stop the yelling. He was quite the precocious sixteen-year-old. Already making plans to rule the world. And such plans began with ruling the household while Father was away.

Sherlock had first tried the usual tactics—the ones that worked on Mummy. He cried, and sniveled, and ran all about the house to keep Mycroft and his scissors away. But when he'd finally been cornered, that's when the first glimpse of hard-chiseled sociopathy came out.

The tears had disappeared instantly, Sherlock's expression going completely blank. He'd looked at his older brother with dead, calculating eyes, sizing him up. And even so young, he'd appreciated the surprise on Mycroft's face.

"What have I got to do to keep you from cutting my hair?" He'd enquired, almost politely.

"Nothing you can do. It's a mess, Sherlock…" Mycroft had replied.

"What if I kick you between the legs and then run away?"

"You'll be very sorry."

"Why? What will you do to me?"

Mycroft obviously hadn't thought about that. It took him a few seconds to respond. "I'll whip you, with Father's belt."

"Mummy will see. I'll tell her exactly what happened, and she'll be very cross with you. She likes me better, you know."

And he'd seen a tiny whisper of a pain shoot through Mycroft's body. It was delicious.

"You try to act like father, but you're _not_ father," Sherlock continued, "and you can't cut my hair if I don't want you to."

"I'm older than you," Mycroft countered, "I'm quite a bit bigger than you, and I know how to cause you a lot of pain that won't leave bruises you can show to Mummy. You don't want to be my enemy, Sherlock. Things will become very unpleasant for you whenever I am home."

"I'm certain I could make things equally difficult for you. What if, for example, I asked Mummy for the key to the library, locked the doors—and then I swallowed it. You know she gives me anything I ask for. You spend all of your time in the library. You wouldn't be able to get back in until I passed the key. And I'd make you search for it yourself."

Sherlock had been almost surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth. But the way Mycroft was reacting, panting slightly, fingers twitching, he didn't want to stop.

"You're forgetting the other option, Sherlock," Mycroft barely whispered.

"What's that?"

"Surgical removal of a foreign object. I could sedate you and take you to the hospital, then have the nice doctors cut you up to get the key out."

It felt like Sherlock's heart was pounding in his ears, but he didn't understand why.

"That would certainly leave scars. Mummy would disinherit you," he said quickly. The longer he kept this little game up, the more distracted Mycroft became. Soon there would be a chance to escape, and he would take it.

"Father wouldn't let her. Mummy may prefer you, but Father prefers me."

"Father doesn't prefer anybody. He doesn't feel things, unless he's drunk, and then he's just angry."

"Don't talk about him like that," Mycroft barked.

"Why? It's true."

Mycroft lurched forward, and Sherlock took the opportunity to duck out of the way, and rocket around his brother too quickly to be caught. Sherlock was small, and lithe, and wicked fast. Mycroft was slightly overweight, and slower on his feet. He couldn't catch up with the little devil that had sped down the hallway and out the back door.

* * *

It wasn't long after the hair-cutting incident, that Sherlock realized he had control over other people. Everyone else was walking around submerged in a mental fog—and he was the bright shining star at the center of it all. He wasn't ten years old before he became smarter than every single one of his teachers. And his classmates? They were pathetic. Might as well have been monkeys.

Everyone around him was constantly making mistakes, that left them extremely exploitable to manipulation. They walked around, running their mouths, leaking data—personal data. Secrets, hopes, dreams, fears, all apparent in their inflection, the wrinkles in their clothes, and the crumpled notes they left in trash bins.

People were puzzles, begging to be solved.

But none of them were altogether that challenging to figure out.

Mycroft was the only one that ever played on Sherlock's level—the only one who ever presented any difficulty. If they hadn't been brothers, they may have been great friends. But instead, they settled into a rather twisted kind of rivalry.

When Mycroft was away at school, Sherlock would call him at vague hours of the night, just to play snippets of classical music and hang up. Auditory taunts. Mycroft always listened.

He would send Mycroft enormously complex numerical puzzles in the mail, and receive them back a week later—solved. Except once. Once Sherlock didn't receive a solution for ten days, so he'd sent it himself. Mycroft had called Mummy and told her that Sherlock needed extracurricular activities.

As Sherlock grew older, Mycroft became less and less friendly. He became the enforcer. Making Sherlock use that big brain, rather than letting it idle and atrophy. Making him play the violin until his fingers felt like they would bleed. Upping Mummy's sedative dosage so that there was nobody to intervene when the "lessons" became too grueling and Sherlock started to break. Most ten-year-olds couldn't tell you how many bones they had—let alone memorize the complete anatomical structures of the entire primate family. Under Mycroft's careful supervision, Sherlock learned to create every explosive compound known to man. He learned to name every star in the sky, and then promptly forgot it—just to make Mycroft angry.

It was all good fun. But Mycroft always had the upper hand. The faster wit. The more extensive knowledge of the nervous system.

That is, until Sherlock discovered that his intellect was just the beginning of his power.

Around the time he turned fourteen, he started to grow into himself.

He'd been a rather small child. Rail-thin and pasty. Those large blue eyes bugging out from a misplaced baby face. Plump cheeks and a bony torso don't suit each other.

But over the course of a summer, he stopped being one of the shorter children in his class, and shot up like a beanpole. Once he started growing, it just kept on. Soon he towered over the rest of the children his age. His face thinned—leaving his startling cheekbones to protrude sharply.

With his added altitude, and a face that finally matched his long, sinewy torso, people began to notice him in different ways.

The girls stopped ignoring him, and started giggling stupidly, finding excuses to ask him irrelevant questions. Sitting near him. Talking at him. Just staring at him, unabashedly.

Mostly he'd found it rather annoying. But of course it hadn't taken him long to realize what they were on about.

The day Sherlock Holmes realized other people found him attractive was a dangerous day for the world indeed.

His first thought was—_my, this will make things easier, won't it? Life's a beauty contest, after all._

Then, he was filled with pure elation about the fact he'd finally beat Mycroft at something. Mycroft wasn't hideous to look upon, certainly. But he had a perpetually sour expression plastered on his face and he was twenty pounds overweight. People seldom gave him a second glance. Nobody looked at him like they looked at Sherlock.

A simpler man would have rubbed it in Mycroft's face. But Sherlock gloated silently, and began to learn all the ways he could exploit his advantage.

Like a true scientist, Sherlock began to keep observational notes.

His first experiment consisted of walking about the back yard with his shirt unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze. That had a marked effect. Too much of one. Mycroft began shouting at him through the upstairs window that only savages walked about half dressed. Certainly it caused a reaction. But not the desired one—supplication.

Sherlock also found that when he paid any special attention to the help, especially the gardener, Mycroft would quickly find a way to dismiss them from the room.

Sherlock couldn't figure out if it was protectiveness or jealousy. Probably both. It almost got poor Mr. Tabers, the young, Scottish groundskeeper, fired. It hadn't been his fault. Sherlock had lured him into the shed and given him a chaste little peck on the cheek. Mr. Tabers had been quite the gentlemen. He'd gone a startling shade of red, rattled on for a good five minutes about how it "weren't proper" and had refused to let Sherlock perform any further experiments on him. Mycroft had probably known that Sherlock instigated the whole thing. Otherwise Mr. Tabers might have been executed by firing squad.

Soon, Sherlock had very good ideas about how to use one's body as a tool for manipulation. But he'd also realized that doing so often caused far more explosive reactions than mental power plays.

Sure, he could raise Mycroft's blood pressure by simply cocking an eyebrow and biting down on his lower lip ever so slightly.

But if he took things too far—Mycroft would slap him.

Flaunting one's sexuality, like Sherlock already flaunted his intellect, seemed like a risky business. It could elicit quite volatile behavior in even the calmest test subjects.

So Sherlock played dumb. He went about pretending that he was completely unaware of the fact he could make people drool by licking his lips and smiling at them. He played innocent. Played asexual. And my, was he good at it.

He could make every person he approached feel like they'd discovered him. He pretended to be their oblivious diamond in the rough.

Sherlock was so good at this act, he managed to "lose his virginity" to three different girls, and four different men before he grew tired of playing such games.

When people thought you were a virgin, they treated you gently. Almost lovingly.

It was far better to be feared than loved.

When people loved you, they had a bargaining chip. They could take their love away, and there wasn't a single thing you could do about it. Fear was a thing that could be re-established easily. Inflicted. It didn't require participation.

Love was tedious anyway. Sherlock had learned early on that if he ever displayed such an emotion towards somebody, Mycroft would make them disappear. So what was the point?

* * *

Sherlock's first sexual experience had taken place shortly after his fifteenth birthday.

It had been with his violin tutor, Anthony. And oh, it had been sickeningly sentimental. It wasn't like Sherlock had really known better.

When Sherlock's grades had started to drop out of sheer, mind-numbing boredom, Mycroft hired tutors. People to poke and prod at Sherlock, to make him do his coursework. Smart people, who weren't fooled as easily as his regular teachers.

Anthony had been the exception. He didn't have a brilliant mind for storing facts and figures, but he was one of the youngest first-chair symphony violinists in the world. Only nineteen, and handsome, with light brown curls and a sweet smile.

He'd never stood a chance, really. Not when faced up against a horny boy-genius who'd had a lifetime of experience in coercion and manipulation.

They'd only been having lessons for three weeks when Sherlock had decided that he was in love. There was a warm, fluttery feeling in his stomach whenever Anthony smiled. His brain was flooded with chemicals that made him slow and jittery.

During lessons, he actually appeared to be getting worse on the violin. Because whenever Anthony adjusted Sherlock's fingering or corrected his posture—strange sparks of heat would shoot through all of Sherlock's nerve endings, and everything would go to mush.

Something had to be done.

Things couldn't be allowed to continue in such a ridiculous manner.

So Sherlock began teasing. He was quite good at it.

Before lessons, he would unbutton the top of his shirt. Put on jeans that he'd already grown out of, that were tight around the crotch, and accentuated the curve of his arse. He would rake his fingers through his hair to make it look like he'd just rolled out of an extremely sensual dream.

Anthony became occasionally flustered, and would sometimes trail off in the middle of sentences, but it wasn't enough.

It had been a Tuesday.

For most of the lesson, Sherlock's eyes had been shamelessly fixed on Anthony's belt buckle.

Something had broken.

Anthony's cheeks were flushed. His breathing erratic. He kept shifting around on the balls of his feet and snapping at Sherlock if he played a wrong note. All the signs of raw nerves, anxiety, frustration, and perhaps… arousal?

While playing the beginning of Shubert's first violin sonata in d-major, Sherlock had raked his eyes up and down Anthony's body. He was wearing a well fitted button-down, with loose slacks. Hard to say. Was that the hint of an erection?

"Sherlock?" Anthony cleared his throat as Sherlock stared at his mouth and ran his tongue along his lower lip.

"Yes?" Sherlock stopped playing and hung an innocent expression on his face.

"You're staring at me."

"Sorry. I hadn't noticed. Must have gotten caught up in the music."

"You always stare at me," Anthony snapped, "why?"

"Well, I thought that was obvious." Sherlock let a small smirk spread across his lips. "You're very attractive. Can you really blame me?"

Anthony sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, in a gesture much too old for his years.

"This is inappropriate. I'm you're teacher."

"Tutor. My brother pays you. It's not like you're doing it through a school system."

"You're only fourteen."

"Fifteen."

'That's still underage."

"Only by a year."

Sherlock was rather pleased that they were already talking logistics. If Anthony had rejected him outright, he may have been dissuaded. But there wasn't an excuse in the world Sherlock Holmes couldn't twist around or ignore.

"This would still be very wrong." Anthony refused to meet his eyes.

Sherlock set his violin in its case gently, and then he advanced. He didn't stop until they were nearly touching. Anthony was almost hyperventilating. But he hadn't backed away.

"I've never done this before," Sherlock offered, running his fingers up Anthony's chest, tracing over the buttons of his shirt. "But as you know, I'm a quick study. And I have an oral fixation. So I'm assuming I'll be rather good."

And with that, he brushed his lips against Anthony's. Gently. Questioningly. He felt Anthony's arms wrapping around his waist. Pulling him in deeper. He opened his mouth, and their tongues touched, and that had been it.

All the butterflies in his stomach exploded into a driving, insatiable need. He didn't even really know what he needed so badly.

But he had several theories.

* * *

Even after that first sloppy blowjob—Anthony had persisted in ridiculous ideas that they were doing something they should feel guilty about. Citing Sherlock's age as his only real argument, he'd asked if they could wait for penetrative intercourse until Sherlock had turned sixteen.

Sherlock's response had been to laugh, say, "you're adorable" and kiss Anthony into submission.

Their first time had been at Anthony's flat in London. Two months after the first kiss.

Sherlock had taken the train down on pretense of watching Anthony in concert, and spent the night.

It had been everything he'd expected. And then more than he could handle. Having Anthony inside him… well he'd never felt so cared for. So accepted. He'd gone to pieces in the man's arms, and trusted that everything would be ok.

He should have known it was too good to be true.

Panting, sweaty, staring into each others eyes as the waves of pleasure thrummed through them.

"I love you," Anthony had moaned breathily, while he drove deep inside Sherlock.

"I love you too."

And Sherlock had meant it.

At least, as much as he could.

His heart felt like it was in his throat. His brain was flooded with too many thoughts to process. Even as Anthony was buried deep in him, it felt like they could never be close enough.

Anthony had been fired three weeks later.

Sherlock still didn't know whether Mycroft had figured it out on his own, or Anthony had made some sordid, guilty confession. But he never saw him again. Anthony wouldn't take his calls, or answer his emails. Mycroft wouldn't let Sherlock on any more trains to London without a supervisor.

All the feelings that had filled Sherlock to bursting withered and died.

So sex became about power, like everything else. Anthony had made Sherlock feel helpless and out of control. And he was determined to never feel that way again.

He had everybody he wanted. None of it was ever the same. All of it felt good. Released most of the same chemicals. But the butterflies were dead and buried.

* * *

Sherlock stumbled back into present tense. All the memories coursing through his blood, making him angry.

He and Mycroft were still staring at each other.

"So, here's what's going to happen," Sherlock said softly, "You're going to stay out of this. I'm going to have John as much as I like, and you will do nothing to stop it. Because if John mysteriously goes away, I will find Moriarty, and I will shag his brains out even if it's the death of me."

Check mate.

"Sometimes I really do think about just locking you away somewhere that you'll never see the light of day again. It grows increasingly tempting with each passing day." Mycroft smiled pleasantly.

"Good luck finding a prison that can hold me," Sherlock snarled.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find that yourself one day if you continue to flirt with disaster in such a flippant manner."

And with that, Mycroft turned on his heel and began to walk towards the door.

"Please send Doctor Watson my regards."

Sherlock couldn't help but look at the empty space in the doorway that came after Mycroft disappeared down the stairs. It had been a threat—decidedly so. The old games were back in motion.

The detective slumped back down on the couch, letting out a long sigh.

This was going to be such a mess if Mycroft got involved, as he undoubtedly would. But all Sherlock could do was wait.

* * *

_Sadly, my beta's computer was broken this week. I apologize profusely for any mistakes I didn't manage to catch. I will be posting corrections as they occur. Feel free to alert me to anything you find._

_As always, reviews, follows and favorites keep me writing. In fact, they make me write faster and more explicitly._

_John's POV chapter will be up soon. Perhaps in the next few days if I get antsy :D_

_But otherwise expect smut on Wednesday. I love your eyes dearly. May they continue to read my sexualized ramblings._


	5. The Five Stages

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Fair warning: general John angst. Men sexing each other. Dub Con, revolving around issues with safewords and such. Sherlock saying entirely inappropriate things. You know the drill by now._

* * *

John Watson had gone through the five stages of grief in a matter of about two weeks. He couldn't decide whether this was a good thing, or if his mind had finally broken under the pressure of his abrupt lifestyle change. Either way he'd reached a stage of placid acceptance.

He was sitting in his armchair, drinking tea, and watching the news. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, applying nicotine-patches to his forearm, and muttering something about public transportation.

Every so often, Sherlock would look over at him, and John would pretend not to notice, but he would smile just the same.

Calm, quiet, and collected—John had no disturbing thoughts about the present and no questions about the future.

Was this how people in the cancer ward felt?

That would mean John had accepted Sherlock's sexual advances like somebody accepts the inevitably of death.

How morbid.

John gave a mental shrug. What was normality anyway? If this was the way things were—he no longer had a problem with it.

* * *

_Denial._

After Sherlock had released John from the handcuffs, made him a cup of tea, and said he was going out—John had showered, dressed, sat on the couch and proceeded to stare out the window for about three hours.

He didn't try to wrap his mind around what had happened, because he knew that would be impossible.

In fact, he didn't have the mental faculties for much besides repeating the phrase, "I am heterosexual" over and over again.

Eventually he was able to come up with a list of very good reasons as to why he'd let Sherlock take things to such ridiculous levels.

_1. Sherlock Holmes could manipulate a polar bear into buying a refrigerator. I never had a chance._

_2. He kept distracting me by touching or sucking my dick_

_3. I did almost safeword a few times_

_4. If the prostate is stimulated for long enough at the correct angle, it will cause any man to ejaculate. Just medically speaking._

_5. Being a soldier conditions a person to be more receptive to taking orders_

_6. I've never been attracted to another man in my life_

But his brain always stuttered slightly at number six.

It wasn't strictly true.

He tried modifying it. But that hadn't really helped.

_6. I've never been sexually attracted to another man… probably. But maybe I just notice attractive people in general._

John could appreciate aesthetics. A pretty face was nice to look at, regardless of gender. Sherlock Holmes had a flawless bone structure. Those cheekbones. Like fucking razorblades. And damn him if he didn't know how to dress to the nines.

But that didn't mean anything, did it?

Just because John had noticed these things within moments of meeting the man—that certainly didn't mean there had been a sexual attraction right from the get go.

Even if he'd barely been able to form clear sentences around the detective for the first few days of their cohabitation…

Fuck.

That dinner.

That stupid dinner at Angelo's.

_6. Ok, fine. Maybe, for just a second, I had a ridiculous little crush on my vampiric Adonis of a flat mate. But man-crushes are a thing, aren't they? It doesn't mean I wanted to jump into bed with him. I just admire him. I want to be him more than I want to fuck him. Right? That's a perfectly acceptable, and not homosexual feeling to have. You know what brain? You're not being very useful. Shut up._

* * *

_Anger._

John didn't remember exactly how the yelling had started. One minute Sherlock was asking him to text something to Lestrade, and the next John had been on his feet, shouting, while Sherlock stared at him placidly.

"How can you just sit there and pretend everything is perfectly fine! It's not fine! It is the opposite of fine!"

"John," Sherlock had drawled, "do calm down. You're going to disturb Mrs. Hudson—"

From there, John practically blacked out from anger.

He did monologue for quite a while.

Mostly about Sherlock being a manipulative bastard.

He remembered pacing a lot.

And probably re-iterating the fact that Sherlock was a complete tosser several times. The words _sociopath_ and _lunatic _were thrown around extensively.

The detective's facial expression hadn't changed through the whole thing.

Even when John was panting, and red in the face. Sherlock had just looked at him vacantly and asked, "Are you finished, then?"

And on that note, John had stormed out.

Quite dramatically.

He was rather proud for a few moments. Before he got out onto the street and realized he had nowhere to go.

He slept in a hotel on principal.

But then, of course, went back to Baker Street. Sherlock did not apologize. Neither did John. Things were rather tense.

* * *

_Bargaining._

In the following days, John proceeded to call Sarah, Linda, and pretty much every other woman on his contact list. They must have all sensed the desperation. Because they were either "busy" or they rejected him outright.

He'd even tried flirting with poor Molly Hooper, when Sherlock had tersely dragged him to St. Bart's to pick up new body parts or something.

Molly had flushed and stammered, and John had felt immediately guilty.

Sherlock had laughed.

* * *

_Depression._

When John was upset, he drank tea. When he sunk into a deep sort of lethargic sadness, he ate fish and chips.

Every meal.

For five days straight.

He stayed in his room, and watched movies on his laptop, and he stuffed his face full of potatoes.

He felt utterly pathetic, and sorry for himself. He knew things were bad when he began trying to talk himself into re-enlistment.

_You were happy there occasionally._

_You felt useful._

_Better than sitting in a stuffy flat, eating your feelings._

_At least out there, you were helping people._

_Saving lives._

_And maybe next time, a bullet will hit you where it counts._

Of course it was nonsense. But it was great nonsense to wallow in. And wallow he did. Extensively. Never really crying. Just feeling like a deflated lump of a human being.

He drank himself to sleep and ate himself into waking stupors.

* * *

_Acceptance_.

John had gone out into the living room very calmly. Well composed. Freshly showered. He'd eaten an actual breakfast, rather than just leftovers from last night's takeaway.

"Sherlock, can I talk to you?" John had asked civilly.

The detective simply waved at the armchair next to him.

John took a seat.

"I've um—I've started looking at new flats." John tried to keep his voice steady, but it was already cracking. "I should have all of my things packed up and moved out by the end of the week."

"What ever for?" Sherlock looked up at him as if he had been thinking about something important and was annoyed at being interrupted.

"Well, I don't think I can live here anymore after what happened."

"You're not still on about that, are you? It's been almost a week and a half. How long does it take for a person to come to grips with their sexuality? This is becoming quite tedious."

John was somewhat thrown off balance, but tired to proceed.

"I'm leaving, Sherlock."

"Stop being ridiculous."

"Listen to me," John snapped. "I am moving out, and I'm not telling you this so you can try to talk me out of it. I'm telling you as a common courtesy so you can start looking for a new flat mate."

"I don't want a new flat mate." Sherlock's voice had dropped to a dangerously low register.

"Well that's just too bad, isn't it?"

And then Sherlock was standing over him, grasping both sides of the armchair, with their noses nearly touching.

"Listen here, _Doctor _Watson," Sherlock had growled, "I've been letting you sulk about the flat, behaving like a ridiculous teenager, because I don't like getting tangled up in people's emotional messes. I find them rather dull. And frankly, a bit disgusting. But I'm tired of it. So you're going to start behaving like an adult, and deal with your fucking problems—and if you think that means picking up and running away, you're about to be dreadfully wrong."

"Are _you_ telling _me_ to act my age?" John ruffled indignantly.

"Yes. Because right now you're behaving like a 'complete tosser' as you so eloquently put it, and there's only room enough for one of those in this flat."

"You can't make me stay."

"Can't I? I have a large collection of handcuffs that would say otherwise. Maybe I should chain you to the banister until you calm down."

The words sent a shiver through John's nerve endings. He could already feel his blood temperature rising.

"Try it," John hissed, "I'll destroy you, Sherlock Holmes. I've killed people. I'd have no qualms about breaking a few of your bones if I had to."

"I'm so fucking scared," Sherlock's mouth was hovering, almost touching John's.

Their lips just barely brushed against each other.

And that was the end of it.

It was the kiss to end all kisses. Almost as if they were actually trying to eat each other's faces off. It was violent. And sloppy. And yes. More than a bit insane. But that didn't seem to matter as Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and picked up him.

"What are you doing? Put me down!"

They tumbled to the floor. Rolling around, until Sherlock had pinned John down in front of the fireplace. He ripped John's shirt off. The buttons went flying everywhere. Not to be outdone, John began tugging at Sherlock's jacket.

Sherlock tried to slap his hand away, but John just growled.

"I've never seen you naked."

"Admitting you want to?" Sherlock grinned.

"For god's sake, yes!"

Sherlock bit into his neck. John saw every star in the sky.

But somehow, his fingers had the wherewithal to unbutton Sherlock's jacket, and get his shirt halfway undone before the detective pulled back with a few drops of blood on his lips. John watched in a mix of horror and elation as that beautiful tongue licked them up.

"You don't taste half bad."

Sherlock sat back, straddling John, and slowly slid his blazer off one shoulder. He smirked slightly, then snaked out of the jacket, slow and smooth as a seasoned stripper.

John felt like he may be drooling.

He was surprised by how little he cared.

The bastard was doing it on purpose. Unbuttoning the rest of his shirt at an agonizing rate, just to watch John squirm. But god, he was beautiful. How was he that beautiful? Was he hitting the gym in the middle of the night while John slept?

It didn't matter.

John reached out and gently caressed the newly exposed skin in front of him. Running his fingers along the sides of Sherlock's ribcage, and rock-hard abdomen. So smooth. Pale. Fucking perfect.

Sherlock intertwined his fingers in John's hair, almost lovingly, and then he yanked. John let out a cry—which Sherlock promptly silenced with more savage kisses.

"I'm going to fuck you right here in front of the fireplace, John," Sherlock moaned into his ear, "you've no idea how many times I've imagined it."

John couldn't even manage a reply. Somehow, Sherlock had undone the zip on John's trousers and already had a hand down his pants.

He'd never get over how wonderful those hands were. _Never_.

"And after that I'm going to fuck you against the window. With the curtains open. Your naked body pressed up against the cold glass."

That was mad. Deliciously insane. People would see them. They'd probably be arrested.

Did John care?

Sherlock was licking and sucking at the bleeding bite-mark on John's neck, causing it to sting horribly, and somehow tingle wonderfully at the same time. Rational thought seemed like nothing but a distant memory.

"We're going to have sex on every piece of furniture in this house."

Sherlock's had kicked off his trousers and their erections were rubbing against each other. John was muttering words that sounded suspiciously like,_please_ and _lovely_.

"I'm going to handcuff your to the coffee table and make you suck my cock during the evening news."

Sherlock was reaching over John's head for something. Who the fuck keeps a bottle of lube tucked underneath the sofa? Fuck. He'd planned this all out, hadn't he? Manipulative, devious… _oh god that is glorious…_

Those marvelous fingers had pinched down on John's nipple and they were twisting it in an utterly unforgiving manner.

"I'm going to install a St. Andrew's cross in your bedroom and whip you until that pert arse of yours is a luxurious shade of red. And then I'm going to fuck you so hard, you won't be able to sit down properly for _two_ weeks."

Somebody was moaning breathily.

_Dear god, is that me_?

Oh yes it was.

This had all gone so terribly wrong. This was supposed to be the break up. Or whatever you call it when you try to escape from your psychotic flat mate. How had this happened? Why were John's trousers and pants being pulled off and tossed across the room? Why wasn't he screaming at Sherlock to stop?

The detective must have seen some of the panic starting to blossom on John's face, because he looked deep into his eyes, and in that rumbling, commanding voice he'd said—"I am in control, John Watson. Submit. Let this happen. You want it desperately."

And that was all John needed.

He relaxed into the floor. Let out a sigh even. It felt oddly good to surrender like this. There was a strange sort of inevitability in it.

Sherlock's finger brushed between John's arse cheeks, and then pushed inside him. John's cock was already dribbling pre-cum. The uncomfortable burn was there. In his arse. On his neck. Around the nipple Sherlock had twisted. But Sherlock's finger found his prostate almost immediately. And, _Jesus_, that made it hard to focus. Apparently they weren't taking it slow this time. Sherlock already had what felt like two fingers inside him.

John was bucking back against them. Or perhaps thrusting towards Sherlock's smoldering erection. Did it matter?

"Tell me you want this," Sherlock was almost purring.

John had great doubts about being able to force any sounds out of his mouth besides the faint little whines that were happening already.

"Tell me or I'll stop."

"Please," John managed to choke out.

Sherlock's fingers were sending tidal waves of pleasure crashing through his entire body. This mustn't stop. This was amazing.

"Please what? I want a complete sentence, John."

Poor John could feel Sherlock smirking against his cheek. Nibbling on his earlobe. John was a quivering mess of sexuality. The world was spinning around him. He'd never known it was possible for another person to make him feel so utterly intoxicated.

_Come on brain. Form words. You can do it._

"Please fuck me," John squeaked. Oh dear. That was a bit not good. What was he saying? Was he asking for this? Begging, even?

Bugger.

"Well, if you insist," Sherlock chuckled.

John heard the rip of a condom wrapper.

Then he felt the head of Sherlock's cock pressing into him. Something gave, and John hissed in pain. But it wasn't a slow drive this time. Sherlock pushed all the way into him, and let John's body squirm in shock at the sudden intrusion.

Thankfully, Sherlock stayed put for a minute. Back to sucking on John's neck—giving him the shudders. Then nipping at his already bruised lips, thrusting his tongue between them. If a kiss could kill, that would have done it.

Then the detective began to grind his hips into John, and fuck, it was fantastic. It drove John's brain to a state of utter emptiness.

Sherlock's lips, teeth and cock had consumed his entire existence. Sherlock's magnificent cock. It was slamming into him over and over again. Sending strange tingling pulses through his body. It hurt. It felt wonderful. There was a sensation in his stomach that was an awful lot like freefall. John seemed to have jumped out of an airplane, and these were those few seconds of ecstatic terror before he could pull the parachute.

John was shaking. Trembling. He dug his nails into the skin on Sherlock's back just to hold onto something.

"John, you are going to abandon your absurd ideas about moving out," Sherlock voice thundered through him. It didn't matter what he was saying. John would have agreed to anything in that moment. "And if you continue on in your morose little mood, I will be forced to hog-tie you and leave you on my bedroom floor—to lick my shoes."

A small gasp forced it's way out of John.

Perhaps what Sherlock was saying should have disturbed him. But instead it was making him ache with need.

His cock was rubbing against Sherlock's naked stomach. So. Good. God. Please. Don't. Stop. Never. Stop.

Did he say that out loud?

Sherlock had grabbed onto his shoulders and was rolling them over. John moved his arms in time for them not to be crushed. He was lying on top of Sherlock, panting. All motion had ceased.

"Ride me," Sherlock's eyes were wide and dark.

Fuck.

John didn't know if he could move.

"Fuck yourself on my cock. Now, John."

John placed his hands on Sherlock's chest, and pushed himself into a seated position. This seemed to shove Sherlock's cock as deep as it would possibly go. John bit his lip and tried to adjust. Sherlock didn't move underneath him.

Slowly, John began to move his hips forward and backward. Sherlock let out a low growl, his long fingers wrapping around John's arse, helping him move. Guiding, but not demanding.

John found the right angle by accident. But once he found it, he repeated the motion, and he moaned. He began to move faster. Driving Sherlock's cock into that same wonderful place, over and over again. His muscles were beginning to contract again. Just like they had the last time. His whole body was absorbed in a nervous sort of anticipation.

He reached down for his own leaking dick, but Sherlock grabbed onto his wrist before he got there.

"No."

John opened his mouth to argue, but no real words came out. Just frustrated grunting noises. Sherlock had begun to thrust upwards to meet John's motions. Harder. Deeper. Faster. It was like they were racing. Fighting their way to the finish line.

It was back. The unbearable tension. Sherlock was slamming into him, and John's body was in a state of near total contraction. He couldn't hold on. Something had to give. Why wasn't it? Oh god. Oh bloody hell. It was so much. Too much.

John shouted.

"Fuck!"

And he was coming. Ejaculating all over himself. All over Sherlock's stomach. Muscles clenching down in time—creating a wave of ridiculous, blissful spasms. John was on the moon.

Sherlock never stopped fucking him, all the way through the earth-shattering orgasm, the detective was pounding into him with wild abandon. It was perhaps another minute or two, before Sherlock grunted, and then stiffened, and stopped moving.

John sat there, panting. Still quivering with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Eventually John eased himself upwards off Sherlock's dick, and then rolled sideways onto the floor. His legs were too shaky to attempt standing up. He just needed to lie there. Possibly forever.

"Did you really mean that about making me lick your shoes if I got sulky again?" His voice was strange and empty.

"Oh yes."

"You're a bloody lunatic."

"So I've been told."

"Tea?" John asked hopefully.

"All right," Sherlock smiled, sitting up, "but don't get the idea that I'll make you tea every time we shag. Or London's going have a vast shortage of PG Tips very soon."

John tried to smile at that.

But he got the feeling that Sherlock was serious.

* * *

It had been four days in a row, with them shagging at least twice a day. Often more. Almost every surface of the flat had been christened. As John sipped his tea and looked at the television, he wondered how he'd suddenly rediscovered the stamina of an eighteen-year-old.

Perhaps it was that Sherlock didn't give him a choice.

And even though he didn't really like thinking about it, Sherlock made him feel things that nobody else ever had. Just a touch on the shoulder, a whisper in his ear was enough to make John hard. He'd never been so attracted to anybody in his life. It was twisted. Really fucked up. But somehow, that just made it better.

John had spent a lot of time puzzling over these feelings. Thinking about how long they'd actually been there.

All the times they had collapsed against the wall in the hallway, raggedly exhausted from chasing some criminal all over the goddamned city. Standing so close to each other. Breathing so frantically. John had always shoved down that strange impulse to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck and kiss him into oblivion. But the desire had been there, even if he'd refused to see it.

How long had Sherlock seen it?

He must have realized before John did.

Had he just been toying with the good doctor? Biding his time until he was weak, confused, and susceptible?

It sure bloody seemed like it.

And that was the oddest thing. John just didn't care. He was fucking the world's cleverest sociopath, and he didn't think twice about it.

It was only six o'clock and they'd already done it on Sherlock's bed, and on the kitchen table.

John's arse ached every time he shifted in his chair. But somehow, it was almost pleasant. Because then he thought about why it ached. And he drifted off into sated sexual fantasies.

"John?" Sherlock's voice broke through.

The good doctor looked over to see that Sherlock had seven patches on his arm. _Jesus Christ._

"Do you think this is too many? I mean, in your medical opinion," Sherlock indicated his nicotine-patch splattered forearm.

"More than one is too many, Sherlock," John sighed, shaking his head. "You should take off at least three of those."

"But I'm so close to solving it. I can taste it."

"You're going to give yourself nicotine poisoning."

"Well… I can think of other ways we might help me focus, then."

Sherlock's gaze had turned decidedly lecherous. John elected to ignore it and continue to drink his tea.

"Remember how I said I'd chain you to the coffee table and make you suck me off during the evening news?" Sherlock's voice was a seductive rumble.

"Yes." John kept his eyes fixed on the television.

"The news is on, isn't it?"

John sighed and held out his wrist. He felt the familiar click of the handcuffs Sherlock had taken to carrying around in his jacket pocket.

"I swear, you're trying to sex me to death." John rolled his eyes as he slid to his knees and allowed Sherlock to secure the other side of the cuffs to a leg of the coffee table.

"Oh hush, you love it."

* * *

_Once again, I had to edit this by my lonesome and I apologize for any mistakes. Anyone interested in making sure this story keeps getting posted and has beta-ing experience should PM me :D_

_Your reviews, follows and favorites make me happy when skies are grey. You are my sunshines. I love you._

_Expect more smut next Wednesday. Possibly sex against a window. I'm feeling naughty._


	6. The Window

___These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Fair warning: exhibitionist sex between extremely horny men. Why would that bother you? I don't know. But there it is. Also, angst, angst, angst with bits of fluff to ease the pain._

* * *

"So, who is she?" Harry leered from across the table.

"Sorry?"

John had never particularly liked these monthly dinners with Harry. But he did feel somewhat obligated to check in with her—especially after the divorce. And well, it was good to be out of the flat.

"You, sir, look well shagged. Spacey. And pink in the cheeks. Who's the lovely woman that's done this to you, and can I have her when you're finished?"

"She's uh… well I haven't been seeing her for very long. Not even sure if we're an item or anything. So far it's just been the sex."

"Does this mystery woman have a name?"

"Linda." It was the first name that popped into his head. The wrongness of it struck him immediately. But there was no way he was going to correct Harry on her gender assumption.

She'd never met Sherlock. But she'd seen photos and kept up on the blog. Her only comment had been _seems like a wanker._

"Sounds like a perfectly reasonable girl. How is she in bed?"

"Amazing." John allowed himself a small smile.

"She must be crazy then. Nutters are always the best fucks. I'd keep an eye on that."

"Mad as a hatter," John suppressed a laugh. "But in a relatively harmless way. I think. A bit into the kinky stuff. I never thought I'd be in for that sort of thing. But I've just kind of run with it."

"Kinky? What kind of kinky?"

"Well—she's rather fond of handcuffing me to various pieces of furniture."

"Dear god," Harry snorted.

"And she's got a thing for riding crops."

"Sounds like a keeper."

"Yeah. Until she gets bored anyway. Which I'm assuming will happen pretty quickly. Seems like the type, you know." John tried to drown the twinge of sadness in his voice by stuffing a few chips into his mouth. But it was too late. Harry had already heard it.

"Oh, dear," she shook her head, "you've gone and fallen for a sadistic bitch, haven't you?"

"No," John said flatly.

"Poor sod." She patted his arm gently. "It's ok. It happens to all of us at one point or another. Just try to get out before she does irreparable damage to that tender heart of yours."

"Probably too late, isn't it?"

"Definitely. But at least _you_ can still drink the pain away," Harry sighed. Her eyes had been following every waiter carrying a drink since they'd sat down.

"It's good that you're trying to quit, love." It was John's turn to look sympathetic.

"I know. Two months sober. I'm quite over the moon about it." Harry's face slumped sourly.

"I suppose it's the sort of thing that gets easier with time." John shrugged, wishing he had something better to say.

"Yeah, I suppose."

John's phone buzzed.

He knew who it was before he looked down.

**Scotland Yard. Urgent - SH**

**Really urgent or you need a pen urgent? - JW**

John tapped out his reply quickly and set his phone aside. Harry was giving him that look. The one where he knew she was calling him an idiot inside her head

"It's Sherlock," John said quickly. "He needs help with a case."

"I suppose you'll be running off then."

John's phone buzzed again.

**Doesn't matter. It's an order - SH**

**No - JW**

John hit send, knowing he would regret it.

"I'm sure he'll get by without me," John smiled.

Harry crossed her arms and waited. John's phone buzzed again immediately.

**When you don't obey direct orders, I hurt you – SH**

**Come find me, then - JW**

John hadn't even put his phone down when it buzzed again.

**Orso, Wellington Street – SH**

**Did you hack my GPS again? - JW**

**Yes. Get me a tiramisu, and come to Scotland Yard – SH**

John muted his phone and put it aside. Harry was chewing on her lip.

"You told him we were out to dinner, didn't you?" She half raised an eyebrow in a way oddly reminiscent of the detective who was currently filling up John's inbox with threatening messages. Probably pictures of the riding crop at this point. That's what he started sending when he lost his patience.

"Yeah."

"He does this every time."

"He's just—he's not good at people, Harry."

"I'll say," she snorted. "What I don't understand is why you put up with it. Seems more like having a needy girlfriend than a roommate."

John coughed slightly.

"He's really not that bad once you get to know him."

"Sure."

"Will you hate me if I go?"

"Only slightly."

John waved at a waiter for the bill. He put his card on the table.

"Oh, and can I also get a tiramisu carry-out?"

* * *

"For god's sake Sherlock!" Lestrade was in the process of a rather heated chewing out, "Why didn't you just wait until we got there?"

"Your _people_," Sherlock let the word drip with distain, "weren't fast enough."

"You can't just go around stealing buses at gunpoint! Do you have any idea how many laws you broke doing that? Where did you even get a gun?"

"Don't ask stupid questions. And I didn't steal the bus. I commandeered it. Put it under citizen's arrest. Whatever you call it. The thing was loaded with explosives. I stopped a terrorist attack. Frankly, I thought you'd be more grateful."

"Grateful? It's going to be nightmare covering this up. The press will have a field day. I really should just let them put you in jail."

"Both of us know you won't."

"Can you at least try not to make my life this difficult?"

"What fun would that be?" Sherlock smiled wryly and sent yet another picture of the riding crop to John. He'd made sure to photograph it from lots of different angles. So he'd have options for emphasis.

"I need a drink." Lestrade sighed, rubbing his temples. "After all this, the least you could do is buy me one."

"You mean you want me to go to the bar with you so I can watch you get plastered while I think up increasingly humiliating things to do to you?" Sherlock didn't even look up from his phone.

"I suppose, yeah." Lestrade's cheeks colored slightly.

"Mycroft in a mood, then?"

"When is he not?"

"Well, as much as I normally enjoy defiling my brother's toys, I'm afraid I already have plans tonight."

"Oh." Lestrade's face fell. "You've got a new boy or something, then?"

"Not exactly new. He does already live in my flat."

With a seemingly impossible sense of timing, John Watson chose that exact moment to walk though the door.

"Hello, John," Sherlock smiled. "You really should have come with me earlier, you missed me getting arrested."

"Arrested?" John spluttered. "For what?"

"Stealing a bus at gunpoint. Is that my tiramisu?" Sherlock indicated the box John was holding.

"Err, yeah." John handed it over.

"Excellent, I'm starving."

Sherlock dug into the dessert, with the provided plastic fork, eating it painfully slowly. Taking his time to lick every bit of custard off the utensil before sticking it in for another bite.

John turned to Lestrade in utter bewilderment. Lestrade stared back with wide, frightened eyes. Sherlock had to suppress a laugh. He could see the gears turning in Lestrade's skull.

_No. No, it couldn't be. He's fucking with me. John doesn't seem like the type that would allow himself to be tied down and shagged within an inch of his life. But… dear god. Look at the way John's looking at him. Well… he's always looked at him that way, actually. But Jesus. I never thought they'd really go there._

"Sorry." John tried to collect his scattered thoughts. "Did you say you stole a bus?"

"Yes. A big one." Sherlock took another sizeable bite of the desert.

"Why?"

"To stop a bombing. I thought these idiots would be falling over themselves thanking me. Instead they dragged me down here and started lecturing me about how I'm a civilian, and I'm not allowed to commandeer public transportation. I think you dropped this."

Sherlock dug into his jacket pocket and handed John's gun over nonchalantly. John accepted it with a half-open mouth. Sherlock knew that he could have waited. Strictly speaking—John's gun was illegal. But it wasn't like Lestrade was going to do anything about it.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade was jerked rudely out of his thoughts. "That's evidence! How did you even get that back?"

"Nicked it off Anderson in the lift."

Lestrade seemed to be trying to find words to articulate his confusion and frustration. And Sherlock wondered if it was really about the gun, or if Lestrade was now imagining what it looked like when Sherlock fucked John in their living room.

Oh, he did like torturing Lestrade.

It was too bad Mycroft had gotten to him first. Sullied him. Sherlock could still have him, but he would never enjoy it as much.

"So, are we done here?" Sherlock smirked slightly. "You can put me on house arrest or something if you'd like. John could make sure I don't leave, right John?"

John let out a small snort. True, the idea that John could _make_ Sherlock do anything was laughable. But he didn't mind sitting around the flat as much as he used to. After all, he had quite a good project going. And it was never dull figuring out new ways to fuck John Watson.

It was funny. Even though the experiment had similar results—mutual orgasm—every time Sherlock repeated it, he still wasn't bored. In fact, he seemed to only grow more interested in sex with John every time it happened.

It wasn't logically possible to be more aroused after sex than you were before it. But that seemed to be the way things were continually working out.

It was the puzzle of the century.

"If I were to put you on house arrest, I'd need to put a tracking bracelet around your ankle." Lestrade cocked an eyebrow.

Sherlock responded by putting a leg up on his desk.

Lestrade stared for a moment—obviously still reeling from his, _Sherlock and John are actually fucking_ epiphany, and unable to process much new information beyond it.

"If this will get me out of here faster, please by all means put on a tracking cuff. Of course, I'll remove it the second I get home. But if it will make you feel better."

"Just go," Lestrade sighed. "Don't leave town."

"Certainly, Inspector. Come along, John."

Sherlock closed up his tiramisu take-away and stood quickly. He was out the door with John staring after him a full thirty seconds before the doctor collected himself enough to follow.

* * *

Sherlock had John up against the wall in the stairwell, their trousers pooled around their ankles. Both of their shirts unbuttoned. They hadn't even made it upstairs. Thank god Mrs. Hudson was on holiday. She might have had a heart attack.

"You're perfectly insane," John was saying breathily, as Sherlock nipped at his neck.

"Tell me how much you love it."

"It's incredibly hot. And entirely frightening."

"Isn't your cock just leaking thinking about me holding up a bus with _your_ gun?"

John shuddered.

"I could fuck you right here, in the stairwell," Sherlock licked at John's jaw line. "But I think I have a better idea."

"What?" John asked in a gruff whisper.

"Against the window."

"Sherlock," John moaned as the detective wrapped his hand around John's aching prick. "I've explained to you why we can't do that. We'll be arrested for indecent exposure."

"I've already been arrested once today. I think I should go for the record."

God.

These days Sherlock always seemed to be in a state of insatiable arousal. But on the post case-solving adrenaline rush, he was downright animalistic.

Was there even a point in arguing?

John was so fucked. In every sense of the word.

Sherlock was stepping out of his trousers, and tugging John up the stairs. Of course, John followed. Once he reached a certain state of arousal, he found it rather difficult to deny Sherlock anything, no matter how ridiculous it was.

That wasn't healthy, was it?

At least Sherlock left the lights off as he dragged John over to the window and pulled the curtains open.

Fuck.

John looked down onto the street below. The sun had set a long while ago, but there were still people out. Walking underneath the streetlights.

"Stop worrying." Sherlock pressed John's back up against the glass. "Nobody ever looks up, and I'll let you keep your shirt on."

John just sighed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders.

At least he wasn't handcuffed to anything. Not that he didn't enjoy that. But this way, with all of his limbs free, he could pretend that maybe this wasn't just about Sherlock wanting to dominate him and consume him completely.

It could almost be romantic.

Sherlock had gotten a packet of lube out of John's shirt pocket. The good doctor had begun to carry them around defensively. A slick finger entered John, and no matter how many times they did it, the sensation still made him shiver and moan. He felt the detective's cock dribbling against his stomach.

Another finger, more groaning. Some part of John felt vaguely guilty about the fact that he couldn't wait to get Sherlock's cock inside him.

They'd dispensed with the notion of condoms about a week ago, after John had dragged them both down to the clinic to get tested. Sherlock was always biting him and licking his blood anyway, so condoms were rather pointless. He still wasn't sure he could trust Sherlock. After all, he didn't know who else, if anybody, he was sticking it in. He didn't really want to know. But Sherlock has promised that John wouldn't contract any diseases from him, and that had been enough.

And god, it felt so much better.

It was a world of difference.

Sherlock was holding onto him, lifting him off the ground, gripping his arse. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips, and clung to him as tight as he could. Back against the cold glass. The warmth of Sherlock's fevered breathing on his face. The aching stretch as Sherlock's cock pressed into him, followed by the feeling of utter fullness and contentment.

"You're so fucking sexy," Sherlock groaned in John's ear.

John's eyes widened. That was certainly a first. Sherlock had told him that he had a nice mouth, or a lovely arse, when his dick was inside either one respectively. But he'd never commented on John's aesthetic as a whole—certainly never called him sexy.

Maybe he was delirious.

"When you walked through the door of Lestrade's office, I wanted to throw you down on his desk and fuck you right there in front of him. I almost did."

Yep. Definitely delirious.

But it made John whimper all the same.

The detective started to thrust, and John couldn't do anything but hold on for the ride. It was a bit awkward, certainly.

The glass behind them was quickly fogging up. And it was rattling rather disturbingly. John was half afraid that they would break it and tumble out onto the street below. They were only two stories up. It probably wouldn't kill them. But damn would that be an embarrassing trip to the hospital.

"It's bullet proof glass," Sherlock breathed, as if reading his mind.

"What?"

"Had it installed after that bomb went off across the street."

"God, you're brilliant."

And Sherlock rewarded John with a rather violent kiss. Clearly he got off on exhibitionism. He was panting and moaning more than usual. Burying himself inside John with rather erratic movements.

Even with John's shirt on, it had to be obvious what they were doing.

What else could it possibly look like?

Sherlock shifted his angle slightly, and when John began making guttural noises, he increased the speed of his thrusts.

Oh, it was heaven. Possibly better. John had never really understood what people meant when they talked about fireworks. But this had to be it. His entire body was consumed with a warm ache that could only be satisfied by more of Sherlock's touch. Closer. Harder. Please keep going.

_Fuck_.

They way Sherlock was looking at him—with those wild eyes that seemed like they belonged to a starving tiger. Dangerous, predatory, and all encompassing. Ready to devour John completely.

John wouldn't be surprised if one of these days, Sherlock actually tried to eat him.

The way he bit down on John's neck, you'd think that's what he was doing. He left what would be deep teeth-mark shaped bruises in the morning. But he didn't draw blood this time. At least, John couldn't taste it when they kissed again.

"Fuck, John," Sherlock's breathing was ragged, "are you close?"

John nodded.

It was a slow burn. But it was certainly there, and building all the time. The tension. Constriction.

"Touch yourself."

The tone of Sherlock's voice caused a small war in John's brain. He suspected, that if he let go of his vice-like grip around Sherlock's neck, Sherlock might accidentally drop him. On the other hand, it sounded like a direct order. And damn it all if John didn't want to come so badly he could hardly stand it.

_Shit._

John wrapped a hand around his aching prick, and god, it was lovely. He squeezed hard, and with a few strokes, he was there.

The orgasm ripped through him, and Sherlock stilled. Pinning him hard against the window. Keeping a firm hold on him while John's body clenched and shuddered. He waited until John wrapped his arms around him again, and then he began pounding into the doctor as hard as he could.

John was a quivering mass of over-sexed muscle. But Sherlock already seemed dangerously close to the edge.

Usually he wasn't very noisy.

But this time Sherlock groaned so loudly it seemed to shake the entire flat. Or maybe just the window John was pinned against. It was hard to tell.

Sherlock slumped against him panting, lingering for a moment before pulling out, and allowing John to lower his legs to the floor. John felt Sherlock's semen trickling down his inner thigh. Still warm.

Damn that was so wrong—and utterly hot.

Sherlock was grabbing him again. Wrapping his hands around John's biceps, pressing up against him from behind, and steering him towards the bedroom. Sherlock's bedroom. _What?_

"Sherlock—I'm tired," John said quietly. "I can't possibly take another round tonight. You're actually going to break me in half."

"I know. But you'll be fine first thing in the morning."

John was in full panic-mode now. He'd been very careful so far. He couldn't really demand anything from Sherlock—but he'd made a rather valiant effort to prevent their falling asleep together.

That would be too much.

Too personal.

He was already dangerously close to falling head over heels in love with a sociopath, and this was his last line of defense. He'd be damned if Sherlock thought he was going to give it up without a fight.

"Sherlock. I don't want to sleep in your bed," he said a little louder.

"Why not?" Sherlock was still guiding him towards his bedroom. They were about to cross the threshold when John threw out his arms and grabbed the sides of the doorway to stop them.

"Please. I never ask you for anything. But right now, I need you to let go of me."

Sherlock's hands dropped.

* * *

There was a strange twinge in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. John had turned around to look up at him, and there was something a lot like fear in his face.

"I don't understand," Sherlock's brow furrowed.

This had never happened before.

Usually, people were giddy when Sherlock decided to let them spend the night instead of kicking them off his mattress after the sex was over. It was a rather sentimental gesture, wasn't it? The kind of thing people like John tended to enjoy.

This by far the least disturbing thing he'd ever done to the poor doctor. So why did he look like Sherlock had just tried to shoot a hole in him?

"I just can't, Sherlock." John was shaking slightly.

Oh god. The emotions were about to start up, weren't they? This was why Sherlock didn't do nice things for people. He hated the blubbering that came when he made a miscalculation.

"If you cry on me, I'll have to go shower. Do try not to." Sherlock sighed, but he pulled John into his arms. The doctor struggled for a minute, and then he relaxed. Like he always did.

They stayed like that for a while.

It wasn't entirely objectionable.

Usually Sherlock disliked physical contact that wasn't directly associated with causing an orgasm. But this—well it was all right. At least John had stopped shaking, and was breathing more normally. He hadn't cried.

"Why is the idea of sharing a bed with me terrifying?" He asked mildly. "I'm not going to maul you in my sleep."

"I just—I need boundaries Sherlock. At the moment we don't seem to have any. I mean, for god's sake, yesterday you jumped in the shower with me. If we do this too… I need some degree of separation from you, or I'll go mad and become completely absorbed into your personality, or something like that."

"I've never known I was capable of absorbing other people's personalities," Sherlock commented curtly.

Why did John always have to be so complicated and ridiculous? Where did he even get these ideas?

"Can I just please have this? I need it."

"Fine," Sherlock released him.

Rejection. It tasted bitter.

Certainly, John had tried to run away from Sherlock's sexual advances at the start of things. But anything he'd said "no" to thus far, he'd quickly gone back on. Sherlock briefly wondered if John was refusing to do this just because he wanted to be forced.

Somehow it felt different than that. For once, John's body was in seeming agreement with his brain. He was displaying all the _off_ signs Sherlock could possibly imagine.

Suddenly something that had been an insignificant, fleeting suggestion threatened to completely overwhelm him.

_Why doesn't John want to sleep in my bed?_

Oh god. It was going to eat away at him.

John had no idea what he'd just done. He'd planted a complicated problem in Sherlock's brain and refused to give him adequate information to solve it. To make matters worse, it was the kind of problem Sherlock was particularly bad at. Figuring out why other people felt ridiculous emotions.

Thoughts? He knew all about other people's thoughts.

Motivations? Wants? Needs? Certainly. All of those things were obvious.

He could tell you if someone was angry, sad, lustful, or terrified.

But the why of it—well that's what Sherlock had a hard time with. They _why_ of emotions was almost never logical. It was difficult to deduce something that didn't make any sense in the first place. Emotions were messy and strange and painful, and he truly hated dealing with them.

God damn it John.

Boundaries? What the fuck was that about? Since when did John Watson care about boundaries? Sherlock had been stepping all over them for the four months they'd been living together and this was the first time it had ever been mentioned.

Sherlock realized he'd just been standing there, staring down at John incredulously for what had to be at least a full minute, and neither of them had moved.

"Sherlock—please—this is nothing. Don't let it bother you," John was saying.

Oh. That's rich. Mask on. Cold as ice. Just like always.

"Don't worry about _me_. Good night."

Sherlock pushed past John into his room and closed the door a little harder than necessary.

Fine then. If John wanted to play games, Sherlock could do that. He was the master of it, after all.

He sank down onto his bed and began to type out a text to Lestrade. Despite all the utterly annoying things he did, like staging fake drugs busts, and sucking Mycroft's cock—he really was a good shag. Properly trained. Never any trouble. Never any complications.

With Lestrade—you always knew where you stood.

**Plans changed. Your place in an hour? SH**

His thumb hovered over the send button for what was probably only a few seconds but it seemed like an hour.

Fuck.

He really couldn't do it, could he?

What was happening to him? Mycroft's words were suddenly ricocheting around inside his brain—_you're going soft, I can see it._

Pressing the delete button seemed like admitting defeat, so Sherlock simply left the message typed out and set the phone on his bedside table. He'd send it when there wasn't such an awful sensation welling up in the back of his throat.

_Pull yourself together._

Right. Sherlock should just forget this. Delete the night from his brain. Not the sex against the window, because that had been amazing. Just the last ten minutes. That bizarre conversation.

But if he deleted it, then he would probably ask John again. That wouldn't solve anything. In fact, it would probably make John angry.

Sherlock rolled over and groaned into a pillow. Why did he even care if John was angry? Certainly it wouldn't impede their sex life. In fact, it might make it better.

This was going to be a real fucking mess if he didn't get some distance from it. He needed to clear his head. Maybe even just have a drink. Spend time with somebody that wasn't John. Fucking Lestrade senseless would certainly take his mind of things. He reached over and pushed the send button on his phone. It beeped almost immediately.

**Mycroft's over. Sorry - GL**

Damn it all to hell.

Sherlock threw his phone against the opposite wall.

Was this what normal people felt like all the time? Because frankly, it was dreadful.

* * *

_Your reviews, follows and favorites are my ambrosia. They bring me to a state of ecstatic bliss. _

___I've been having email issues with my new beta, but hopefully this will be the last un-betaed chapter I'll have to post for a while. So again, sorry about any mistakes._

_Tune in next Wednesday for a metric-ton of angst, followed by make-up sex in the shower :D_


	7. Steam

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Fair warning: oh the angst. I'm sorry. Not actually. Also, if rimming is a thing that bothers you... I still love you, and you can come back next week. But perhaps avert your eyes. I've warned you only because I care._

* * *

"So, how are things on the home-front?" Lestrade smiled tightly over the top of his pint glass.

This wasn't entirely new. John had been out for drinks a few times with him before. But something seemed odd about all this. Usually he just caught John after they'd wrapped up a case, or sometimes they met up to watch football games.

He'd never texted John out of the blue and asked him out for a pint.

It shouldn't seem so strange. But somehow it did.

"You know Sherlock," John rolled his eyes, "brilliant and belligerent. There's a new collection of dead birds in the freezer—for science. And the flat smells suspiciously like formaldehyde. God knows that he's doing. These days I don't even bother to ask."

Lestrade laughed, but it was obviously forced.

Something was very wrong indeed.

"What's new with you?" John prompted.

"Oh, nothing really. Just the usual. Always a million people asking questions I don't know the answer to. The ex-wife drunk dialing me at unreasonable hours of the morning. And don't even get me started on Mycroft. I swear the Holmes men will be the death of me."

"Has he been involved with a recent case? Mycroft, I mean," John asked, with actual interest. Sherlock never kept him updated about anything besides what they were asked to help with specifically. Usually he hadn't the foggiest idea about the things happening in Scotland Yard.

"Well, yes and no. He's always involved in some way or another. I'm fairly certain he has my flat bugged at this point."

John spluttered slightly.

"What? It's not like he doesn't have yours bugged too. You must know that by now." Lestrade smiled.

"I mean, I know he has us under surveillance. But I don't think he's got cameras in our kitchen or anything. Sherlock would have disabled them."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Lestrade sipped his drink. "He's got a rather nasty flair for exhibitionism, that one."

John's eyes widened.

He thought about how much it had turned Sherlock on to fuck him against a window.

But he hated Mycroft. Certainly he wouldn't want him to watch. Would he? God that was a disturbing thought.

"Well," John stammered, realizing he'd been silent for over thirty seconds, "it's not like Mycroft would have much to watch anyway. Other than me drinking tea and yelling at Sherlock to stop putting human remains in the microwave."

"Is that so?" Lestrade quirked an eyebrow.

"Come on, not you too." John rolled his eyes. "We're just flat mates. That's it. I thought you had that figured out by now."

"So did I. Until Sherlock told me different."

John's face blanched. "Oh god," he ran his fingers through his hair. "You're not going to tell anybody, are you?"

"I mean, the entire world seems to suspect it already. But no. I won't go blabbing it around. Never been much the type to gossip. But I figured you'd probably want somebody to talk to. It's not easy shagging a lunatic. Much less a Holmes man."

John drew back slightly. Gripping his pint glass to keep his hands from shaking.

"Know from personal experience, do you?" His voice was a bit hollow sounding.

"Mycroft and I have been on and off for about five years now." Lestrade shrugged.

Just when John was certain that nothing could shock him anymore, something like this happened. Why? What was his life turning into? A goddamned bondage soap opera. That's what it was.

"And yes," Lestrade looked down into his pint, "I've had Sherlock too. That's just it, you see. It's impossible to have one without the other."

John's jaw dropped and he didn't bother to close it.

"I take it he hadn't told you about their little arrangement yet."

"No," John barely choked out.

"They've got it all worked out. They share. Never at the same time of course, but any day now, I bet you Mycroft's going to waltz into your flat while Sherlock is out and try to proposition you."

John felt like a fish. Opening and closing his mouth repeatedly, with only air bubbles coming out. No words were possible.

"I was dead frightened the first time it happened," Lestrade had the indecency to chuckle. "Sherlock ambushed me in my office and I tried to say no. Told him I couldn't do it to Mycroft. And he just looked at me like I was insane, and told me that Mycroft was the one who'd asked what was taking him so long to shag me. And well… it's rather difficult to say no to Sherlock Holmes, as I'm sure you're well aware. He's a persistent bastard, if nothing else."

John still couldn't quite wrap his head around the mental images.

Sherlock inside Lestrade.

Lestrade handcuffed to a bed. Being hit with that same riding crop John had grown to love and hate so thoroughly.

There was a strange twisting feeling inside his rib cage. It was unlike anything John had ever felt before. A monstrous feeling. Some bastard hybrid of depression, jealousy, and rage. Was lust in there as well? God. There was something seriously wrong with him. These humiliating thoughts were turning him on, weren't they?

"I'm sorry," Lestrade reached out and patted him on the shoulder, "I didn't mean to upset you or anything like that. In fact, quite the opposite. I'm doing this because I like you, John. You're a real nice bloke. I thought you deserved to know."

"Yeah." John tried to collect himself slightly. He knew he must look a mess. "I'm glad you said something. I mean—I've always known Sherlock was a bit twisted but this…"

"He's really a sociopath," Lestrade said quietly, "they both are. I know sometimes it seems like he's not, John. But please do be careful. I'd hate to see him wreck such a sweet person like you."

Lestrade's eyes were beginning to shine with a hint of tears.

Any resentment John had towards him seemed to deflate almost immediately. The poor man seemed to be in the same position he was. Clinging for dear life to something that he knew was absolutely awful for him.

"That's nice of you. But I've already pretty much screwed myself," John sighed.

"Yeah. But it does get easier. Once you admit to yourself that it's one sided. That neither of them will ever love you. It's not that they don't want to. Bless his heart, Mycroft tries. But in the end, he's just not capable of it."

"God our lives are depressing," John laughed slightly.

"Cheers, mate."

* * *

John sounded drunk even as he was walking up the stairs. It was a bit earlier than usual. Just a quarter past midnight. John had been out drinking quite a bit lately. Though Sherlock had shagged out the _he won't sleep next to me_ problem, and had put it on a mental back-burner for the time being, something was still bothering John. The fact that Sherlock even registered a vague concern about it was rather frightening.

The detective was writing up his new findings about the bone marrow of English starlings. He continued to type away at John's laptop as the good doctor stumbled up the stairs.

It took one sideways glance to realize that John was blatantly angry. Not the weird, passive-aggressive sort of moodiness that he usually reverted to when he was drunk.

Well—he wasn't just angry. Also confused, sad, and bashfully aroused. But anger seemed to be the predominant emotion.

"When were you going to tell me?" John hiccupped slightly, leaning against the doorway.

"Tell you what?"

"I've just been out with Lestrade." John stumbled across the living room and flopped into his armchair. Sherlock could feel him glaring, so he closed the computer and looked at John directly.

"And… what?" Sherlock tried to display a relatively blank expression. These days it was getting more difficult. Maybe John was just paying more attention—but he was catching onto the lies quicker.

"How's he in bed?" John raised his eyebrows sarcastically. "Good? I bet you get some perverse sort of satisfaction from tying up a police officer, don't you."

Sherlock let out a long, measured breath. It was best not to incriminate himself until he knew exactly what Lestrade had told John. There were quite an alarming number of things he could have said to make John react this way.

But of course Sherlock had seen this day coming, and tried his best to prepare for it.

"I haven't had sex with Lestrade since you and I became involved," Sherlock said evenly. "He propositioned me once, but I turned him down."

"Glad I mean that much to you," John snorted.

"You really needn't feel threatened. Lestrade is in a relationship with Mycroft."

"Like that bloody well means anything!" John's voice was beginning to rise. "He told me. How you two share your _toys._ So when were you going to say something? Or were you just waiting for Mycroft to barge in here and try to sexually assault me?"

"I'd like you to take a moment and think about the ridiculousness of what you're saying. Do I strike you as the type that would _share _anything?"

"No. You're a selfish bastard." John huffed, taking the bait.

"Obviously, Lestrade has given you incomplete information. Yes. I've had affairs with people Mycroft was involved with before. But don't get the idea that I share anything that's mine."

"So… what? You're allowed to fuck his boyfriends but he doesn't come near yours? That hardly seems like something Mycroft would put up with."

"It's a game, John," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's a game, and I always win it."

"What?" John sounded even more indignant than before.

"Mycroft will more than likely try to make a pass at you. But all that's allowed is verbal persuasion. You are free to reject him. I usually win, because the type of people that I get involved with tend to find Mycroft insufferable and physically unattractive. While the types of people he gets involved with, for whatever reason, find me unreasonably appealing."

"If that's not the most narcissistic thing to ever come out of a person's mouth…" John trailed off, seemingly too shocked to say anything.

"I haven't been playing, John."

"What do you mean?"

"I told Mycroft I didn't want him to come anywhere near you."

"Why? You afraid I'd leave or something?" John snorted.

"No. I just don't want to play anymore." Sherlock said flatly. "It's not interesting if I always win… and you do live in the same flat as me. If I actually overheard you two shagging, I might put a bullet in his head."

"Sherlock!" John sounded equal parts astonished and elated.

"I'm possessive, exceedingly competitive, and I already nearly hate my brother enough to kill him. It would put me over the edge."

"You're both mad. I don't understand why I put up with either of you." But John's face was beginning to soften slightly.

"Come here." Sherlock patted the couch next to him.

Physical contact was all it would take to derail John's tantrum completely. He was looking at Sherlock with narrowed eyes. Obviously aware of what was happening.

"That's an order, John," Sherlock raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. "I was already thinking about tying you down and whipping you for coming home so drunk again. But I'll allow you to sit here quietly if you behave."

John let out a long sigh, and he slid over to the couch. Let himself lean against Sherlock. And Sherlock smirked slightly, wrapping a triumphant arm around John's shoulder.

"You belong to me, John Watson." He said softly. "Nobody else is allowed to touch you."

John's muscles slowly began relaxing. Really, he wasn't an angry drunk—more likely to fall asleep than anything else. And he was just awful at having arguments. Far too easily distracted. It was one of his better qualities.

Sherlock began stroking John's hair, absentmindedly. Like you would pet a cat. John seemed to like it. His breathing slowed, and became deeper.

He was asleep on Sherlock's shoulder within minutes.

Sherlock decided that he'd sit there for a little bit, at least until John fell into a deeper state of unconsciousness and he wouldn't wake him by moving away. Besides, it was a bit cold in the flat. Sitting next to a drunken John was like cuddling up with a space heater.

The detective chewed on his lip slightly. Thinking over the new information he'd received. True, he hadn't exactly told Mycroft he was no longer interested in playing. He'd threatened to go shag Jim Moriarty if Mycroft took John away. But, apparently, that hadn't meant very much.

Because this was a rather familiar stage in things.

Mycroft sending out some little messenger to set the ball in motion. He was playing dirtier than usual—using Lestrade. The poor bastard probably felt like a white knight, riding in to save John from peril. Of course Mycroft had put him up to it. Used him to make the opening play of seduction.

He'd come by soon. Not within the next few days, but certainly before the month was out. And Sherlock had to let him. Out of a sense of sportsmanship, if nothing else.

But there was still an odd nervous feeling sitting in detective's chest.

He honestly felt sick at the idea of Mycroft laying a finger on John. That wasn't normal. Usually Mycroft didn't win. But when he did, Sherlock never had a problem with letting him claim his prize.

_Not John. John is different._

Sherlock bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. These thoughts. They were springing out of nowhere. It was utterly disturbing. Physical pain was an immediate way to stop them, but it wasn't a practical long-term plan.

Perhaps it would be better if John were led astray. At least that would put an end to the strange sensation that clutched at the back of Sherlock's throat whenever he thought about how utterly beautiful John was in those frantic moments leading up to an orgasm. When he was helpless. When there were no walls up. When he gave in completely, trusting Sherlock not to hurt him in ways that would last.

That trust was dangerous.

It was addictive.

Sherlock was a junkie by nature. It was only a matter of time before this spun out of his control.

He was still stroking John's hair. Gently tangling his fingers in the soft, feathery blondness. Oxytocin was pulsing through his veins.

Sherlock needed a plan. He needed to think things through. But his brain didn't seem to be working correctly. He sat there with John, long into the night. Doing nothing but enjoying his body heat.

* * *

John awoke on the couch, with sunlight streaming in through the window. He had a pillow under his head, and a blanket draped over him. Memories of the previous night flooded back into his brain, and he let out a small groan.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep.

Sherlock must have known he would.

Down crashed the final wall. It was even more embarrassing, because John had been all geared up to have a good, long row—and he'd caved almost immediately.

Poor John wanted to be angry. He really did. After all, his life was close to reaching a pinnacle of ridiculousness… but all the emotion had seeped out his pores while he slept. He was just hungover. His head was pounding vaguely and he was incredibly thirsty.

Tea. Tea and then a shower. John wasn't sure if he could manage food. His stomach was coiling in on itself.

He sat up, head spinning slightly. There was a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin already set out on the table. He snorted at all the strangely thoughtful gestures. Was it Sherlock's way of saying "sorry" or was this just the beginning of a new flavor of mind game?

If it was the later, John wasn't sure he could cope. At least when Sherlock was tying him up and slapping him around—it was rather difficult to tease himself with ideas of attachment. It helped keep some distance. Somehow, it was much scarier to wake up with a blanket over him, and aspirin set out, than it was to wake up tied to the furniture.

But John popped two white pills in his mouth and drank the entire glass of water down greedily. Standing made his brain throb. He felt steadier on his feet after a few moments, and he made his way to the kitchen. The kettle took a small lifetime to boil. When John poured his tea, with a splash of cream and finally sipped it—he was starting to feel better. He was at least confident that he wouldn't vomit.

It would be a day of junk food and crap telly.

Because John didn't want to think about things. Any logical conclusion he could possibly arrive at would be to run away. It was far too late for that. He'd already tried and failed. And as much as he hated to admit it—he didn't _want_ to leave.

Sherlock was going to break John's heart into tiny pieces, and there was nothing to be done about it. Just another thing to accept on top of everything else.

Perhaps it was some bizarre form of Stockholm syndrome.

Does it still count if the captive actually craves the abuse?

He placed his mug in the sink, rinsing it out enough so that the porcelain wouldn't stain. Most of their teacups had brown rings inside them from Sherlock leaving them about the flat, half sipped, and then forgotten about in the heat of a case.

John didn't want to become like those teacups. Stained and unwanted. He made a mental note to start taking better care of them.

It seemed almost like he was dreaming as John wandered towards the shower, closing the door behind him, and letting his clothes fall to the floor. There were some old bruises on his skin. Mostly in the area around his collarbones, and a few fading marks across his arse from the riding crop. Sherlock only left bruises on certain occasions—perhaps when he felt John had been particularly feisty. Really, John supposed he should be grateful that Sherlock used pain as a tool for manipulation, rather than being a complete sadist.

The small army doctor turned on the shower and waited to step in until the mirror began to fog with steam. The hot water running across his skin made his muscles go slack. He leaned his forehead against the tile, and just let himself go blank, cradled by the warmth.

He dimly heard the door squeak on its hinges. But he still wasn't quite prepared as the shower curtain ripped back and Sherlock stepped inside. John didn't look at him. Sherlock's lanky arms circled around John's waist from behind.

"Are you still angry?" His voice was soft, silky smooth, right next to John's ear.

"I don't know," John sighed, "not really."

"I…" Sherlock squeezed John a little tighter.

"You don't have to say it."

Sherlock responded by giving John a light kiss on the neck.

Of course, John knew Sherlock wasn't really capable of apologizing for anything. But he seemed sorry. Whether it was sorrow that Lestrade had told John things Sherlock didn't want him to know—or he was actually sorry for not being honest—John wasn't sure. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't seem to matter.

Sherlock began to plant kisses all the way down John's spine. He kneeled behind him, gently, caressing John's arse, squeezing it, and spreading his cheeks apart.

"Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood—"

John lost track of his sentence when Sherlock's tongue flicked out and brushed against his arsehole.

The water was still cascading down, hot all over their bodies. But his skin felt like it was on fire for a different reason entirely.

John braced his hands against the tile wall, because his legs suddenly felt weak and wobbly.

Sherlock's lips touched against his hole in a rather chaste kiss, before he began lapping at him in an agonizingly slow manner. Gently circling, teasing, causing John to have quaking hot flashes.

It was so filthy, Sherlock licking him there. So wrong. And yet—so incredibly intimate.

John was hard. Throbbing. But god, he couldn't touch it. He would come instantly. And this… well he wouldn't mind terribly if it went on forever.

The detective stiffened his tongue, that clever, nasty, wicked beautiful tongue, and he pushed inside.

"_Sherlock_." It came out as a strangled whimper. A one-word sentence that said far too many things.

_Please don't stop. I can't take this anymore. God I should hate you. But I don't, you mad bastard. Please make me come, make me scream. Fuck. Draw this out as long as possible. Oh shit. You're going to destroy me and I promise to enjoy every minute of it._

Sherlock fucked him slowly, his tongue squirming in and out of John's hole, lips pressed around it, sucking gently every now and then. He gripped John's hipbones roughly, holding on, pressing, perhaps just trying to keep John standing.

Strange, small whimpers kept dripping out of John's mouth. It almost sounded like he was crying. Maybe he was. It would be difficult to discern warm tears running down his face from the water droplets streaming from his soaked hair.

It didn't matter.

John was pushing back against Sherlock's tongue. Oh fuck. He almost wondered if he might come just from this. Just from the idea of Sherlock doing this. He wished he could see, because it was probably beautiful. Sherlock on his knees, face buried between John's arse cheeks, licking and sucking him into oblivion.

Words were long gone. John let out a long, desperate whine, and Sherlock seemed to understand.

One of the hands wrapped around John's hips wandered forward, to squeeze his cock. Stroke it languidly.

Sherlock was matching the rhythms, the swirls of his tongue with the slow strokes and it was going to drive John completely up the wall. John was trembling. Dangerously close to something tremendous. The detective sped up a bit, focusing the motions of his hand on the pre-come slicked head of John's cock. Giving him exactly the right amount of friction. Pushing him closer and closer until John couldn't stand it anymore, then letting off just enough to keep him from coming.

He would have begged if he could have. All that came out were odd keening noises. Sherlock kept right on. Stroking and licking, teasing John's hole with soft flutters of his tongue and then pressing back into him. Touching him just enough to keep him right on the edge.

John was a trembling mess of pure desire. Of burning blood and dizzy pleasure. He surrendered to every sensation that flashed through him. Crashing on his own euphoria.

Sherlock let out a low hum against his tender skin. Sucked, gave John just a little bit more friction. And the world collapsed.

_JESUS._

It ripped through him, like a small atomic bomb going off. He stopped breathing, pulsing in Sherlock's hand, dribbling come all over his pale fingers. He was ten thousand meters in the air. Higher than he'd ever been. And he stayed there for a few flashes of complete ecstasy before coming down.

Sherlock pulled back slightly, let go, and John sank down onto the floor. The detective was still achingly hard. John could see it. But when he reached out to touch Sherlock's cock, Sherlock pushed him away.

"No, John," he said softly, "that was for you."

And Sherlock stood up, began to take a proper shower. Shampooing his hair, and scrubbing his pale skin. John continued to sit until Sherlock pulled him up and began washing him. Planting soft little kisses on John's cheeks or neck, carefully avoiding his mouth.

_I love you._

Bugger.

* * *

Sherlock wrapped John in a towel, before drying himself off. John still looked oddly dazed. Had it really been that good? Usually John didn't get like this unless he was completely restrained, and about to come. In the afterglow he was always back to snapping at Sherlock—being disagreeable for the sake of it.

There were no words this time.

The doctor simply allowed himself to be led into Sherlock's bedroom and deposited on the mattress.

Sherlock pulled back the duvet, and they both climbed under it. Curling around each other. Usually, John was also opposed to cuddling. Pushing Sherlock off, of clambering away after sex.

He was being awfully compliant.

Sherlock had done something seriously right or horrifically wrong.

"How are you feeling?" The detective asked softly, stroking along John's jaw line.

"How the hell should I know?" John snorted.

Ah. There it was—at least, a hint of the normal feistiness.

"Go to sleep." It was a vague command, but a command nonetheless.

John's eyes closed almost instantly. And Sherlock smiled. He felt oddly heavy himself. He usually found it impossible to sleep in the middle of the day. But he let his eyes flutter shut, and simply soaked in the feeling of having John next to him.

_John is special._

Sherlock started to bite down on his lip, but something stopped him. Why bother arguing with his brain when it was correct?

* * *

_Hooray for __**wholockian729**__, whose computer is fixed and is once again beta-ing for me. I'm so happy to no longer deal with the mental stress that is editing._

_Your reviews, follows and favorites make me squeal with glee. If I could marry them, I would._

_I'll see you next Wednesday for a chapter of almost exclusively smut and cute things! This story is getting far to serious. My plot got away from my porn, but that's about to be remedied shortly._

_Don't want to wait that long?_

_**TUNE IN ON SATURDAY FOR MY BRAND NEW FIC, "A Study in Shagging."** It will be shameless happy Johnlock smut. Pretty much it's just my apology to John for all the terrible things I've been putting him through lately. Also, Sherlock will be drunk. Good times shall be had all around._


	8. A Night Out

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Fair warning: drunk John and... SEX IN PUBLIC! HOORAY!_

* * *

"We're going out." Sherlock swept into the room, already wearing his long woolen coat. Of course, John had just settled down with a nice cup of tea. There was a marathon of Jeeves and Wooster on in fifteen minutes that John had been looking forward to it all evening.

But Sherlock was staring at him expectantly with those wide blue eyes. Bugger. Plans ruined.

"Out?" John asked carefully sipping his tea.

"Yes. Did I not speak clearly?" Sherlock barely raised an eyebrow. "You haven't eaten. We'll get dinner, then I need to investigate a ridiculous alibi."

"Dinner?" John repeated. He already knew this wasn't a choice. And if there really was a new case, he was interested in it. But he was so damn _comfortable_. He had on his most worn-out jumper and had dragged out the afghan his mother had given him last Christmas and cuddled up underneath it.

"Yes. Dinner. It's necessary research for the rest of the alibi. As are you. Now come on."

John wrinkled his eyebrows. "I'm part of somebody's alibi? Well then it must not be true."

"Not you specifically," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But the man was out on a date. So I'm taking you on a date, John. Stop complaining."

Well—John definitely didn't need to hear that twice. He'd never been on a proper date with Sherlock Holmes. They'd eaten out together, extensively, but that wasn't the same. He tried not to look too giddy as he set his tea down and stood.

"Should I change or something?" He looked down at his jumper. It was old, and the colors clashed, and there were more than a few snags in it.

"If you must. But please hurry."

John stepped quickly upstairs and threw on a button-down. He also decided to put on a pair of slacks, rather than the ratty jeans he'd been wearing. Black coat. No tie. He didn't look so bad—if he did say so himself.

He walked back downstairs, and saw the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch upward slightly at his wardrobe change.

"Well look at you, all prettied up," Sherlock drawled, more than a bit sarcastically.

"You're one to talk, Mr. Dolce and Gabbana."

"Reading my shirt labels again?"

"When you throw your clothes all about the flat it's hard not to."

Sherlock made a small, annoyed noise at the back of his throat, but he grabbed John's arm and dragged him downstairs. The taller man hailed a cab.

"What do you feel like? Chinese, Italian? There's a new sushi place near the river I've been wanting to try, but it's up to you." Sherlock asked as he held the door of the cab open for John.

"Sushi is fine with me," John shrugged as he ducked in.

Sherlock slid in beside him and gave the Cabbie the address. Then they were off. It was all a bit odd. John was always slightly apprehensive when Sherlock started acting too thoughtful. But then again, he supposed this wasn't an actual date. Just research for a case, nothing to get excited about—screw it, he was all fluttery and blushing like a schoolgirl.

It didn't help that Sherlock's hand was on John's knee, thumb tracing over his thigh absentmindedly. He hadn't noticed until they were in the confines of the cab, but Sherlock was wearing cologne. Soft, but spicy; enough scent to be pleasant without becoming overpowering.

Bastard. He must_ know_ what he was doing. He must _know_ that John's trousers already felt a little too tight. Damn him. This dinner was going to be an exercise in torture, wasn't it?

They got out in front of a nice little Japanese restaurant. Sherlock paid the driver, pressed a hand against the small of John's back and they walked inside. It was a bit fancy, but not so posh that John felt uncomfortable. He liked the soft lighting and the minimalist black and white décor. They got a table in the back corner. Sherlock pulled John's chair out for him. John rolled his eyes, but his stomach did a little flip-flop.

Sherlock sat across from him and began scanning the menu. John followed suit. Everything was printed in Japanese first, and then English. There was nothing, not even an appetizer, for less than £15.

"Get whatever you want, it's on me," Sherlock commented smoothly.

"You sure?"

"Certainly."

John had a brief debate with himself about ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, just to see how Sherlock would react. But he decided he'd rather not eat blowfish. His love of danger did not transfer over to food-related things.

When the waitress came by to set down tall glasses of water, Sherlock ordered a large bottle of sake. John widened his eyes a little bit at that. He'd never seen Sherlock actually drink before.

"Part of the alibi research will necessitate you getting a bit drunk," Sherlock clarified as soon as the waitress was out of earshot. "I hope that's not a problem."

"If you're paying, of course it's not," John chuckled slightly. "Will you be joining me?"

"No. I don't think that would be wise."

John opened his mouth to ask, but decided he'd rather not know. Sober Sherlock was terrifying enough as it was. He could only imagine the kind of mauling he'd be in for if Sherlock got plastered. Sloppy sex was only fun if your partner was normally the gentle type.

The waitress returned with the sake and two small cups. She poured for Sherlock and John. Sherlock ordered some sort of roll (in Japanese) and John got the tempura combination with salmon sashimi. As the waitress walked away, John raised his sake glass.

"Cheers then," he smiled. He drank it down quickly, and then Sherlock was pushing his glass towards him as well.

* * *

It wasn't particularly difficult to get John drunk. He had a tolerance, but he seemed more than eager to consume a near-continuous amount of Sake. Sherlock poured every time the glass was empty—partly because of the old superstition that it was bad luck to pour your own, but mostly because that way John would have a more difficult time keeping track of his consumption. By the time the food arrived, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were a bit glassy.

The conversation was becoming a bit more abrupt. Sherlock was more monitoring than participating. But he answered whenever John asked a direct question, and otherwise just allowed him to ramble.

John was onto football now. Complaining about some recent game in between bites of tempura. Sherlock wasn't really hungry. He moved his sushi around the plate a little bit.

"Sherlock," John suddenly frowned, "why did you order that if you weren't going to eat?"

"I thought it might look awkward if I were just sitting here watching you stuff your face." Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"You've never cared before. Come on. At least just take a bite. Lord knows it wouldn't kill you to gain a little weight."

"Are you saying I'm too thin?" He was within normal weight range, if only just. Doctors had been hounding him about it since he was too small to remember. It had always been, and always would be.

"One piece of sushi."

Sherlock sighed and put one piece of the roll into his mouth. It actually was quite tasty. He waited until John wasn't looking to have another.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock poured the last of the large sake bottle into John's cup.

"Quite tipsy," John chuckled. "If I didn't know better, I might think you were trying to loosen me up so you could take advantage of me."

Sherlock just smiled and said nothing.

It took a minute. But then John narrowed his eyes.

"Hang on," the doctor paused, "what is the rest of the alibi you're researching anyway? You never told me."

John was getting quicker on the uptake. Apparently, even when he was drunk. Sherlock was almost proud.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with." Sherlock used a rather honeyed voice and purposefully allowed his knee to brush against John's under the table.

"No trying to distract me!" John was clearly flustered. It took him a moment to gather himself. "What are you going to do to me? Is it so awful that you can't say it in public?"

"I promise it won't be anything you'll find unpleasant."

"Your ideas about what I might find unpleasant are often pretty far off the mark, Sherlock."

"You like blowjobs, don't you?"

That shut John up rather quickly. A goofy grin spread across his lips and his cheeks went even pinker. It was vaguely adorable.

Of course, John didn't really need to understand the full circumstances under which said blowjob would take place. He wasn't going to ask about it, and if Sherlock told him, that would give him a chance to start panicking.

It was better this way. John was obviously relaxed. Happy, even. He'd be far more pliable than if Sherlock had attempted to follow through on his research without any preamble.

And this little act of domesticity wasn't entirely repulsive. Sherlock didn't do dates, but he'd done plenty of dinners with John. Perhaps that's what made this feel less claustrophobic and utterly dull than any of his previous experiences. John could talk about the stupidest things, and Sherlock would enjoy simply watching the tiny changes in his facial expressions.

John finished eating, and Sherlock got the rest of his sushi as a takeaway. Mostly for show—but perhaps he'd have it later at some strange hour of the morning. The waitress came back offering dessert. John's eyes lingered on the menu for a moment, and Sherlock insisted he get a Green Tea Ice Cream, perhaps because he simply liked watching John eat.

It was a thought that he'd never really articulated. Because it was odd to just tell someone you liked the way they ate. It made more sense now, because he could imagine that the ice-cream covered spoon slipping between John's lips was something else entirely. But he'd even enjoyed the show before they'd become physical.

By the time the bill was dropped off, it had reached a rather lofty number. John tried to get Sherlock to split it, but of course, Sherlock just dropped his card on the plastic tray, and wouldn't hear another word about it. John didn't have money. Not really. It was cute how he was always trying to pay for things—but Sherlock didn't even really care if John paid his half of the rent. If bills were overdue, it was only because they were too dull to bother with. It would all be taken care of. It was one of the great benefits of having rich and emotionally distant parents. They showed their affection through a hefty trust fund.

Sherlock held his takeaway in one hand, and John's arm in the other, and they walked out. Before hailing a cab, he grabbed the front of John's jacket and pulled him into a quick kiss. John looked slightly dazed when Sherlock pulled away. Good.

A cabbie drove up and Sherlock peered through the window. Mid forties, cheating wife, bad breath, and deeply religious—no, that wouldn't work at all. Sherlock waved him on.

John looked up at him, puzzled. "What was that about?"

"Can't a man be picky?"

"About cabbies?"

"If you'll remember—I did almost get killed by one. Right before you shot him for me."

John seemed to take that as an acceptable answer. He just shuffled back and forth on the balls of his feet impatiently. Obviously quite painfully aroused. Also good.

The next one was an older woman. Probably very sweet, but far too prudish. She looked like the type that would be easily startled. Sherlock smiled, but refused to get in the cab.

"Sherlock," John whined. "At this rate we'll never get home."

"Hush," Sherlock rubbed his back softly. "No need to get impatient. This has to be perfect."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

The third cabbie was a young man. Thin, quite stoned, and definitely bisexual—perhaps completely gay. Oh yes, he would do nicely.

Sherlock pushed John into the cab eagerly.

"Where to?" The man looked over his shoulder at them, his eyes lingering on Sherlock for far longer than was absolutely necessary. Yes. This was the right one.

"Head north. Just keep driving until I tell you to stop."

"Um… ok." The car started moving.

Sherlock glanced around the cab. There was a camera above them, embarrassingly visible. It wouldn't be much trouble to smear a piece of gum over it. Sherlock dug into his pocket, popped a strip of mint gum into his mouth and started chewing.

"We're not going home?" John raised his eyebrows.

"I thought it would be fun to take the scenic route."

Sherlock waited until the cabbie wasn't looking in the rearview mirror, and John's face was turned towards the window, then he stuck his gum over the camera lens.

He traced his fingers up John's thigh, ghosting over the zipper of his trousers, barely brushing against John's erection. The doctor squirmed.

"Come on," he whispered, "it's not fair to tease me like that."

"Who said anything about teasing?"

And with that, Sherlock threw an arm around John's neck and pulled him into a rather sloppy kiss. He pulled at John's clothes, and ran his fingers through John's sandy hair, and pressed his lips against him wetly, swirling his tongue into the smaller man's mouth.

John let out a small whimper. Sherlock flicked his eyes towards the cabbie. The young man was watching them in the rearview mirror with slightly parted lips. He was already breathing a bit erratically.

Game on.

* * *

Sherlock pulled back after about a minute and John felt like his head was spinning. His cock was throbbing. He was so incredibly aroused. But then he looked towards the front of the cab and flushed with embarrassment. Oh god. They'd just given that poor cabbie an eyeful.

But Sherlock was smiling lecherously. That wasn't good.

The tall detective leaned up between the two front seats, keeping a grin hitched on his face.

"Do you like to watch?" His voice was high and rather breathy. John had never heard him talk like that before—so effeminate and soft. Was he_ flirting_ with the cabbie?

"I… um…" the poor man couldn't seem to find words.

"My boyfriend and I love an audience." Sherlock trailed his fingers along the cabbie's shoulder.

_Boyfriend?_ John knew it was a put-on. Sherlock would never use that word to describe them in a million years under normal circumstances. But what the fuck was he playing at?

"I'll tell you what, love," Sherlock giggled, "you just keep driving, and when it's all said and done, I'll give you a fifty percent tip. How's that sound?"

"All right," the young man nodded, licking his lips.

Fuck.

Shit.

What was happening?

He shouldn't have gotten quite so tipsy. It was a bit difficult to get an appropriate handle on the situation. Sherlock was wrapping his arms around John, pulling him back in. John struggled slightly.

"What are you doing?" He hissed.

"Researching an alibi," Sherlock barely whispered into John's ear. "And giving you head in the back of a moving cab. A man claims he's innocent of a murder because at the time he was shagging his girlfriend on the ride home from a date. I need to see if it's possible to do this without being caught."

God. This was bad. John shouldn't be nearly as turned on as he was. He looked desperately towards the front of the car. Sex against a window was one thing. But—there was an actual person sitting less than a meter away from them. Watching them intently in the mirror any time the car stopped at a signal.

Not to mention all the people in traffic around them. All anyone would have to do was glance over and they'd see exactly what was happening. There was no way. Absolutely not. This was an awful idea.

But then Sherlock was nipping and sucking at John's neck, and his train of thought was derailed for a moment.

"Come on," Sherlock said huskily. "Just relax. I'll make it good."

John bit his lip.

"I'm starting to think you actually want to be thrown in jail as a sex offender," he sighed.

Sherlock seemed to take that as a sign to continue, because his tongue was once again in John's mouth and he was palming John's cock playfully. And fuck, that felt good.

There was a heated skirmish up in John's mind. The small camp of what was left of John's dignity was screaming at him to push Sherlock away on the grounds of upholding common decency. However, arousal and alcohol were mostly drowning out the protest. Also, though he'd never admit it aloud, the thought of getting caught having sex in a cab did rather excite John in a lot of ways that it probably shouldn't.

John's trousers were unzipped and Sherlock's nimble fingers had slipped under the waistband of his pants. He was stroking John in an infuriatingly slow manner. Making everything worse.

The doctor tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and let out a small growl.

"Well get on with it, then," John murmured against the detective lips.

Sherlock pulled back, smirking, but he didn't waste any time in pulling John's pants down enough to expose him entirely.

The taller man leaned over slowly, grasping John's cock, and flicking his tongue out to just barely touch the crown of it. John groaned. Another gentle, teasing brush of Sherlock's tongue—the warm wetness was so fucking tempting, John had to stop himself from pushing Sherlock's head down and fucking his mouth wildly.

The bastard deserved it.

But there was no telling what kind of punishment he'd get later if he was that inconsiderate. So he just tugged Sherlock's hair a little bit, and held onto the seat with his other hand until his knuckles turned white.

Sherlock continued this lazy sort of licking, occasionally swirling his tongue around the head of John's cock, and trailing up and down the shaft, but never taking it fully into his mouth.

"Please," John's voice was a dim whimper.

The detective took the head of John's cock into his mouth, just barely and began massaging the sensitive underside of the glans with his tongue. It felt like John's brain was spinning from a lack of oxygen. Like he was breathing recycled air out of a paper bag. Impossible sparks of heat were shooting through his body. So intense. Almost painful. But so fucking good.

John let out an unabashed whine when Sherlock pulled off again, going back to the teasing little licks.

"You fucking bastard."

"That's not very nice, John."

"Then stop torturing me."

"Seemed like you were enjoying it."

Before John could reply, Sherlock took him back into his mouth, all the way in, so the tip of John's cock was hitting the back of Sherlock's throat. And he was swallowing. John's eyes rolled back into his head. Sherlock's muscles contracting around him—so tight, so fucking hot and tight, god damn it.

That beautiful long throat had been made for fucking. John was sure of it. If he hadn't been drunk, he might have come already instead of rolling in the dips and peaks of ecstasy.

He felt Sherlock starting to pull away again and almost cried.

The detective was kissing him savagely and stroking his cock. All John wanted was release from the enormous pressure that was building, but it seemed like Sherlock wasn't going to let him have it any time soon.

"You're so hot, when you're all breathless and pining for me," Sherlock growled. "I want to fuck you right here in this cab."

Oh shit. That probably wasn't just dirty talk. But if it hadn't been obvious what they were doing already, there was no way they could have actual penetrative sex without anybody noticing. Someone would look over and see them.

But Sherlock was pulling John onto his lap. Without really thinking about it, John settled into position. Straddling Sherlock, grinding against him. This wasn't good. This was so beyond not good. But John didn't think he'd ever wanted Sherlock as badly as he did right then.

"Fuck…" the cabbie was panting.

John had almost forgotten about him. Ah well, not like it mattered at this point. In for a penny—in for a pound.

Sherlock had unzipped his own trousers and was helping John out of his. John was dimly aware of the sound of ripping foil, and he saw Sherlock emptying a packet of lube into his hand. Slick fingers brushed at John's entrance and he let out an odd sort of relieved sigh as they pushed inside him. Working him, stretching him, rubbing against his prostate.

"Do you… do you guys want me to pull over or something?" The cabbie asked frantically.

"No, keep driving, if you think you can manage it," Sherlock said in a voice that was far too calm, considering the situation. He had three fingers in John's arse for god's sake.

Sherlock slicked up his own cock and John sank down onto it, letting out some select, breathy keening sounds. The car swerved slightly.

"Eyes on the road!" Sherlock barked.

John was fully seated on Sherlock's cock, shaking slightly. He gripped the seat behind Sherlock and used it as leverage to start moving. At first he was careful not to raise up too high, keeping his naked lower body out of direct sight through the windows. But soon he lost track of such things.

* * *

John's leaking cock was pressed between them, rubbing against Sherlock's stomach, staining their shirts with pre-come. Sherlock didn't mind in the least. His hands were around John's hips. He was staring at the beautiful contorted facial expressions the good doctor was making.

It seemed like it had taken him a while to find the angle he liked, but once he did, he began riding Sherlock quite earnestly. Slamming down on him, and letting out strangled, happy, sobbing noises. It was almost enough to make Sherlock come on the spot.

He loved it when John rode him—took his own pleasure, used Sherlock's cock to get himself off. It seemed that being drunk made him more vocal. He was sure passing people on the street were catching small snippets of John's moaning. The thought made him burn with a sort of crazed heat.

The cabbie was obviously getting more and more distracted. Sherlock didn't really blame him, the way John was carrying on. He was kind of grateful for the implied danger of the swerves. It was something to focus on—something to make him last longer. But he really should address the situation before they crashed.

"Find an alley and pull over before you kill us all," Sherlock grunted.

The young man didn't need telling twice. He turned abruptly onto a dark side street, and was parked in a relatively secluded alley in sixty seconds flat. He swiveled in the seat to watch, hand down his trousers, eyes wide.

John's muscles were starting to twitch and constrict. His movements were becoming more desperate.

"That's it, love," Sherlock whispered, "come for me."

He felt John's muscles contract. The smaller man's body went mostly still, except for the wave of spasms, the jerk of John's cock, emptying his seed onto their stomachs.

Sherlock bit his lip and thrust into the tight heat. Keeping John still and pushing inside him. It didn't take long before his balls tightened and everything became too intense to bear, and he was emptying himself into John.

He let John sit on him for a few minutes while the cabbie finished wanking off, and everybody tried to collect themselves. He traced small, soothing circles on John's back. When their breathing returned to normal he helped the smaller man off him, handing him his trousers and looked at the meter. He gave the cabbie a fifty percent tip as promised, and then opened the door and got out.

John looked like he really didn't want to stand up, but he followed. Sherlock draped an arm around his shoulder and watched the cab drive away.

"Please don't tell me we're walking home," John said it a quiet voice.

"No. We'll catch another cab. I just didn't want him to know where to find us. You never know."

"Well, even if you are a bloody mad man, you can be rather sensible at times."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

They walked shakily back to the main road and caught a different cab home. They didn't talk. Just leaned against each other in silence.

When they got back to the flat, John changed into his pajamas and settled back on the couch, to catch the tail end of the Jeeves and Wooster marathon. Sherlock sat in an armchair, just thinking. Someone had been sending him odd messages on his blog. No need to wonder who they were from. His biggest _fan_ was Jim Moriarty.

His eyes flicked over towards John occasionally, remembering what he looked like in a jacket full of explosives. It didn't seem like Moriarty was the type to repeat himself. But he hoped he'd never have to see that again, especially now. It would be too much.

The odds were stacked against them. The walls closing in on all sides. Moriarty and Mycroft would both dearly love to make John disappear. Sherlock knew it. He couldn't let them. He would protect John. He had to. Losing him was unthinkable.

The television flickered off.

"I think I'm going to bed," John said quietly, standing up and stretching.

Sherlock nodded, wondering which room John would choose. Usually he made a big show of going upstairs every night. He would only sleep next to Sherlock if he passed out after sex—or if Sherlock went up to John's room and cuddled him at some early hour of the morning because the flat was too cold.

It wasn't sentiment. He was just reducing their energy consumption by not turning up the heat. Or, at least that's what Sherlock told himself.

But John was looking at him expectantly. Not making any move for the staircase. Sherlock stood and walked over to the smaller man, planting a small kiss on the top of his head. He intertwined his fingers with John's and tugged him towards the bedroom.

Sherlock had accidentally left the window open before they'd gone out. It was freezing, after all. It only made sense to keep each other warm all night.

* * *

_This week, special thanks go to **Artsiegrl9513** who gifted me the plot bunny that inspired this chapter. She said she'd always thought Sherlock and John should have sex in a cab while driving around London, and that Sherlock would probably come to the idea with the pretense of checking up on an alibi. I'm so happy with how this turned out, and I hope she is as well._

_Thanks also go to ____**wholockian729 **for giving this a read over and doing that wonderful thing that betas do._

_____Your reviews, follows and favorites always give me the warm fuzzies. In all seriousness, you people are wonderful enablers of my porning and I love you to bits. I also especially love those of you who stopped by my other story and said hi. I'm halfway through a sequel, which will probably be up in another two weeks or so._

_____As always, there will be another chapter up next Wednesday. The angst will return. But also a few tender moments. You know how it goes :D_


	9. The Devil's Laughter

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Fair warning: you're going to hate me just a little bit during this chapter. But people who stick it out shall be justly rewarded. Um... is there anything left to really warn you about at this point? I don't know. We'll leave it at both Sherlock and John are idiots, and Sherlock plays a little too rough. Oh, and breath play. Also that._

* * *

When John got home there was a box sitting on the coffee table, wrapped in glossy cream-colored paper with a black ribbon tied around it. Sherlock was perched on the couch, as if he'd been waiting.

"What's that then?" John motioned to the box.

"It's for you."

"A _present_?" John snorted. "What have you done? Did you destroy the kitchen or something?"

"No. Why do I need a reason to buy something for you?"

"So you expect me to believe that you were just being thoughtful and you're not trying to manipulate me in some bizarre way that I won't see coming?"

"Yes."

John raised his eyebrows, but he was rather intrigued. He walked over and plopped onto the couch next to Sherlock, waiting for him to explain.

"Go on," the detective gestured vaguely, "open it."

John pulled at the black silk ribbon and tore at the paper carefully. It looked like the kind of box you'd usually put an expensive necklace or something in—but it was a bit bigger. He lifted the lid slowly and his mouth dropped.

It took a few moments to register exactly what he was seeing.

The first thing he was able to comprehend was an obviously expensive black, leather dog collar—with intricate, swirling silver designs embossed on it.

The second was a choke chain. But not just any choke chain. It was gold, and fine, and must have cost a pretty penny as well.

The third thing was a simple braided leather leash. Red. Almost the same color as the velvet of the box.

"No," John said, standing up immediately.

"You don't like them?" Sherlock remained on the couch, his blue eyes regarding John apprehensively.

"I am not a dog."

"So?"

"This is too far, Sherlock."

"But you like being choked," Sherlock rose slowly, "it makes you come almost instantly. I thought the chain would turn you on." He dipped his fingers into the box and came up holding the chain gently. "And you'd look damn sexy in a collar John. Just imagine it."

"I will _never_ wear a dog collar, so you can forget about that." The doctor's voice was shaky. Oh fuck.

"Just around the flat," Sherlock said softly, slowly advancing. "Not in public. Nobody would ever know."

"No, Sherlock. Return it." John backed away, maintaining a careful distance.

"It's all custom made, John. I can't return it."

John was beginning to feel increasingly like a cornered animal. Sherlock was backing him against a wall purposefully. John stopped, stood his ground while there was room left to escape. He let Sherlock step closer and closer until there were only centimeters separating them.

Sherlock had the choke chain looped around his index finger, swinging it slightly, while John balled his hands into fists by his sides tried not to punch Sherlock in his perfect face

"I'm not bloodying wearing it!" John was almost to the point of shouting. He was breathing heavily, with a wide stance. Fight or flight—who said it couldn't be both?

Sherlock just smiled condescendingly.

There was a tense space of complete stillness.

Then it happened rather quickly. Sherlock spread the chain to its full diameter, and tried to force it over John's head. John ducked out of it, and attempted to make his escape. Of course, Sherlock tackled him. Grabbing him around the waist and dragging him to the ground. He pinned John down with his knees on the doctor's back, and slipped the chain over his head, pulling it tight.

"Now then," Sherlock drawled in a seemingly bored voice, "that wasn't so hard was it?"

John was still spluttering, struggling.

Sherlock pulled the end of the chain, constricting it, cutting off John's airflow. This only made the doctor struggle more. But Sherlock didn't let up until John finally tapped the floor. Sherlock released the chain, and John went limp, panting.

"I hate you sometimes," John grunted.

"You have a safeword, it's not my fault if you don't use it."

"Fuck you, Sherlock. I didn't know you were going to bloody tackle me and try to choke me to death or I would have said it."

"You're hard, aren't you?"

"That's not a get out of jail free card. I'm still angry at you."

"Oh really?" Sherlock was beginning to trace his fingers down John's back.

"Let me up."

"No."

"Sherlock, I'm not kidding. Get off me."

"You know what to say."

"I swear to god, if you don't get off me right now, I will say it—and I will continue to say it any time you try to touch me for an entire week."

"You couldn't hold out that long." Sherlock actually sounded a bit nervous. _Good_. Bloody wanker deserved it.

"Vatican cameos."

Sherlock immediately moved away. John stood, brushing himself off. He removed the chain and handed it back to Sherlock tersely.

The detective's face was blank, but his whole body had tensed. This was the line. John hadn't even known it would be. It didn't really make sense for him to be making a stand right now. Sherlock had done much worse than trying to put a dog collar on him.

It wasn't about the collar at all.

No.

This was the fight they'd narrowly avoided three days ago.

Sherlock had been sprawled on the couch, thinking, when his phone had gone off. As per usual, he'd demanded John read the text aloud to him, rather than be bothered to fetch it and read it himself.

It wasn't that John really minded. But when he saw the text his blood had run cold and he'd been silent for a full thirty seconds.

"John, what's the matter? Read it," Sherlock had barked.

"Stop wasting time shagging that dull little pet of yours and come have some real fun—_JM._"

There was a long pause where Sherlock stared with a relatively neutral expression, before saying, "delete it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Silence had followed for the rest of the afternoon. John had felt odd and hollow.

_Pet_.

It stung badly. Because now, John pretty much was. Sherlock said jump—he jumped. Sherlock said bend over the couch—John bent over.

And now, Sherlock was trying to put an actual dog collar on him. John's inflated sense of self-loathing, and shame had reached critical mass.

"One week," John repeated. "You're not the only one who can make arbitrary threats and decide to go through with them."

"John," Sherlock stepped forward, reaching out, "you can't be serious—"

"Don't touch me."

* * *

It was like a slap across the face. Sherlock allowed himself to slump visibly. The way John was looking at him—it made the detective just want to gather him into his arms and tell him that everything was all right. There was no need to be upset.

But along with the obvious desire for comfort, there was an anger burning in John's eyes. Why? Usually he liked things like this. It excited him when Sherlock pushed things to some higher level of power play.

And for god's sake, Sherlock had just spent a few thousand pounds buying him what basically amounted to jewelry.

There was a strange clenching sensation in the detective's chest that felt a lot like panic, but it was less immediate. It was more of a dull burn that was slowly growing.

"I… I don't understand why you're upset."

"I'm not your pet," John practically spat the word, "though obviously you think I am, if you want me to wear a fucking dog collar."

"John I didn't—"

"Oh come on. Don't try to deny it. Even Jim bloody Moriarty knows it."

"What?" Now Sherlock was thoroughly confused.

"It was three fucking days ago, how can you not remember?"

Sherlock bit his lip.

_File not found_.

"God damn it," John sighed. "You deleted that, didn't you?"

"I must have, as I don't seem to know what you're talking about."

"Great," John rolled his eyes. "Moriarty knows we're shagging. He texted you about it. Have fun puzzling that one out all over again. I need some air."

Sherlock felt deflated as he stood there and watched silently as John pulled his coat on. He wanted John to stop. Come back. What if he ordered him to? No. That probably wouldn't help. But seeing John walk out the door made something in Sherlock's chest lurch horribly.

He wanted so badly to run after him.

Do something stupid and sentimental, like grab the back of John's coat right before he was about to step onto the street and pull him into a sweet little kiss. Suddenly, he wanted to throw the collars out the window.

Instead he sank down onto the couch.

There was no indication of any text messages from Jim Moriarty on his phone. But it didn't take him long, pouring over electronic phone records to find the one number that didn't belong.

He puzzled for a minute. It would have been easier if he'd known Jim's exact phrasing. Why had he deleted it? John must have been very upset about it. These days any time John was upset it gave Sherlock a stomach ache. He'd been deleting things left and right to try to avoid the feeling.

**How did you know? - SH**

He hit send before really thinking it through. He didn't have to wait long. Only about ten minutes. Enough time to make tea and settle back into the couch.

**You spend a lot more time in the flat than you used to and the pet had been walking a bit bow-legged. It's all rather obvious - JM**

**Why do you care? - SH**

**Don't ask stupid questions - JM**

**You're jealous? Surely you understand why we're only compatible on an intellectual level. In the end, we can't both win, and neither of us is willing to fold - SH**

**Just because you don't want to be broken, it doesn't mean that I can't utterly destroy you- JM**

**I think you'll find that I'm far less fun in pieces than you seem to imagine - SH**

**Oh, I don't know about that - JM**

**The problem with shattering something is that it leaves far too many jagged edges for you to cut yourself on after the fact - SH**

**Dear me oh my, is that a threat? You're kind of sexy when you're angry- JM**

**Did you know that you're the indirect reason all of this is happening? - SH**

**You mean every time you screw Johnny boy you're thinking of me? - JM**

**No. I realized I wanted to fuck John when you almost killed us - SH**

There was quite a delay after that. This probably wasn't a good thing to be doing. If Moriarty got angry, it seemed he became more irrational and dangerous. But for some reason, Sherlock couldn't help himself.

**I hope that's not the only thing you realized. The whole point of that was to show you how troublesome feelings can be. I know you're not used to them. You deserved a little demo - JM**

**I'm a sociopath - SH**

**No you aren't. If I killed Johnny tomorrow, you'd cry - JM**

**Leave him alone. This is about you and me, isn't it? - SH**

**Not if you won't play nicely - JM**

**What do you want? - SH**

**Again, you're asking stupid questions. I already told you the answer. I want to burn you, Sherlock Holmes, and I'm a man that always gets what he wants - JM**

Sherlock bit down on his lip. Of course, he'd be lying if he said Jim didn't interest him slightly. The raw danger of it all was rather intoxicating. But Sherlock didn't like feeling out of control. Jim Moriarty didn't have a submissive bone in his body. It was all a bit too real.

**If you're trying to seduce me, this is the wrong way to go about it. I liked it better when we were playing games - SH**

**This is a game, Sherlock. It's the most dangerous game you'll ever play. After all, it ends with one or both of us dying - JM**

**What possible incentive do I have to let you near me if you keep barraging me with constant death threats? - SH**

**Sherlock, please, that's how I flirt. I think it's that I just never properly learned the difference between 'gun' and 'cock' and I'm confused about what I want to hold against your mouth - JM**

**You're such a charmer, Jim - SH**

**Only for you, darling heart. Clock's ticking - JM**

Sherlock typed out several responses to that last message, but ended up deleting all of them. It was clear. To keep John safe, eventually he'd have to play the game. Not just yet. Jim could be patient.

The strangest part of it all—was how much he didn't want to. Sex with Jim would be informative, certainly. But it would upset John if he ever found out about it.

Sherlock's stomach was twisting, in a seeming effort to digest itself. He finished his tea and lay down on his side, trying to think about Bach, or the rate of corpse decomposition in direct sunlight, but his mind kept racing back around to the fact that John still wasn't home.

* * *

"Is this seat taken?"

John was abruptly startled out of his thoughts. He'd been sitting on the same park bench for god knows how long, progressing though anger, guilt, and utter bewilderment about the fact that Sherlock had maybe just tried to do something sweet. He'd failed. Miserably. But… he had _tried_.

Mycroft was standing in front of him, holding two coffees. The tall man was dressed impeccably, as always, in a ridiculously expensive suit and yellow waistcoat. He sat next to John without waiting for an answer, holding out the coffee.

"How did you find me?" John blurted out before remembering that he was talking to a man that had access to every CCTV camera in London. Possibly all of England.

"You're not that hard to track down," Mycroft smiled. "You were bound to be here, or at your favorite coffee shop. I checked there first." He held the coffee out again. "We're in a public place, it's not drugged. Go ahead."

John accepted the coffee, sipping it carefully. Hazelnut. Oh, that was quite lovely.

"Not your usual order," Mycroft drawled, "but I thought you might enjoy it."

"Thanks it's um… nice," John nodded curtly.

They sat in silence. Apparently, Mycroft had no intention of explaining his sudden appearance. He seemed content to sit there, watching the passersby, and enjoying the nice sunny day.

John let out a long sigh.

"No offense, Mycroft. But I've had just about enough of you Holmes men in my day already. So—if we could just get on with whatever it is you want…" He trailed off, not knowing exactly how to finish his sentence.

"Surely you already know why I'm here, John." Mycroft looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "I had Gregory explain it to you."

John choked on his coffee.

"You're here to—to—"

"Court you? Yes. How am I doing so far?"

John looked down at the coffee, and back at Mycroft, and felt his cheeks go red. It really was quite a nice little gesture. Bizarre, but nice.

"Look," John chewed on his lip nervously, "I know you and Sherlock have an agreement about all this—but I'm really more the monogamous type. Lord knows, Sherlock's almost more than I can handle on his own. I hardly have the energy to get up in the morning, let alone get involved with anyone else."

"Oh John," Mycroft rolled his eyes, "my brother is to much for _anyone_ to handle. I'm frankly astounded that you've lasted this long."

"Are you really, though?"

"No. You're clearly in love with him."

John's eyes widened a bit at that. Was there a point in arguing?

"You were in love with him the first day you met him," Mycroft shrugged, "really is a pity. You could have done so much better for yourself."

John digested that for a moment. This was all very odd.

"Are you harboring delusions that he loves you back?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"No," John said flatly.

"Oh, you don't mean that for a second."

"Fine. Maybe I wish he did. But I know he doesn't," John huffed. "He thinks of me like a dog, more than anything. He tried to give me a collar today."

Mycroft burst out laughing.

"Dear _god_. I knew my brother could be rather tactless—but that's a new one. Even for him."

Perhaps it wasn't a good thing that John felt slightly proud of the fact Sherlock had never tried to put a collar on anybody else. He soaked in the moment, before reverting to feeling pathetic once again.

"He thinks he's very good at all this, you know," Mycroft said after he'd calmed himself a bit. "But I've always found his methods of seduction to be rather fumbling and brutish. Just because you are capable of manipulating somebody, it doesn't mean you always should."

"You're trying to manipulate me right now aren't you?" John snapped. He didn't like the implication that Sherlock had forced him into any of this. Because John wouldn't have stayed if he didn't want to. He wasn't some withering flower that couldn't defend himself.

Mycroft folded his arms, and regarded John primly, "let me guess. Sherlock attack kissed you after the night both of you almost died—the timeline makes sense, and it would be exactly like him to make his move when your guard was completely shattered. Then he probably allowed you some cool down time, before doing something ridiculous, like wrestling you to the ground and dry-humping you into submission. And then… I'll be he tied you down, gave you a safe word, and proceeded to fuck you silly. Sound about right?"

John chose not to reply. He still wasn't sure whether he wanted to punch Mycroft in the face or just storm off.

"Spot-on, then? I suppose I'll keep going. He shags you like you're a teenager, not a forty-year-old man. He does whatever he wants without much consideration for your fragile feelings. He's excessively jealous, and doesn't like it when you spend time with anyone that's not him—and to top it all off he's got the emotional maturity of a child."

"Wipe that fucking smile off your face," John muttered. Implying, _or I will—with my fist._

"Would you like to have dinner?"

"No." John set down his half-finished coffee, pointedly.

"Why not?"

"Because you're almost worse than he is. You're aware of exactly what you're doing to me. With him I can at least pretend that he's not hurting me on purpose."

"Oh, he knows."

"Then why is he so bloody confused about why I'm upset all the time?"

"He's a very good actor."

"Just stop it. What do you possibly get out of this? The satisfaction of knowing you could take something away from him? That's just sad, Mycroft."

"This is less about me taking away something from him, and more about making another play for someone who would have never wanted me four months ago because he was too enamored with my brother. This isn't the first time I've tried, John. Think about it."

That threw a wrench in everything.

John stumbled about mentally. The first time he'd met Mycroft… he'd been whisked away to some obscure location, for the express purpose of being interrogated about why he was moving in with Sherlock…. Was that Mycroft flirting?

"And you think your brother goes about seducing people in a strange way." John shook his head.

"I did impress you a bit though, didn't I?" Mycroft smiled. "That little stunt with the public phone box and CCTV cameras."

"You frightened me."

"And you're obviously the type that likes danger. I just couldn't give you enough of it."

John finally looked up at Mycroft. It was impossible to know if this was all an act, or if he was genuinely interested. It didn't really matter. But perhaps a small part of him felt a bit sorry.

"You've got Lestrade," John smiled a bit, "instead of chasing me, you should go treat him better. I'm a funny little ex-army doctor. He's a Detective Inspector. Clearly, you'd be trading down."

"Oh, Gregory would be more than happy to welcome you into our relationship. He thinks you're quite attractive."

"You're impossible. Good day, Mycroft."

John stood up.

"Promise me you'll consider it," Mycroft stayed seated, looking up at him. "I mean, when you get tired of being tied to the furniture, and would like to simply have dinner and perhaps some tender sex on a private jet flying across the north Atlantic."

John rolled his eyes and shook his head—starting to walk away.

"You know Sherlock is still seeing other people? I could pull his phone records and prove it."

God that hurt. John turned on his heel and bit his lip, shaking with anger.

"He's not," his breath hitched.

"Then why does he text Jim Moriarty?"

"Jim texts him. He harasses him."

"Sherlock texts back."

"That doesn't mean they're sleeping together."

"Perhaps not yet. But he finds Moriarty fascinating. If Sherlock finds someone fascinating, they usually end up on trial for serial murder, or in his bed. In this case, I'm not sure those two options will be mutually exclusive."

Mycroft looked entirely too smug. John felt his head spinning. He really should just leave. Mycroft was anything but trustworthy, especially when he wanted something.

"He's texted Gregory too," Mycroft examined his nails. "I happened to be at Gregory's flat when he did, otherwise they probably would have met up and had a nice little shag. I don't know whether or not he's tried again since, but I'd say it's a distinct possibility."

That was rubbing salt in the wounds. John took a deep breath.

"Fuck off, Mycroft."

And he walked away.

* * *

Sherlock heard the door slam open downstairs. He had hidden the collars away, cleaned up a bit, and just started the hypnotic beginning notes of Paganini's _Caprice Number Thirteen_. It had always been one of his favorites—nicknamed The Devil's Laughter. Almost like a lullaby at first, before it dipped into manic high-speed runs.

The first time Sherlock had heard it played, it had reminded him of his brain's own spirals and descents. Still water one moment. Tidal wave the next.

He didn't stop playing as John's footsteps creaked up the stairs. Didn't stop when John was breathing on his neck. Only when John was turning him around forcibly, did he lower his violin.

John's lips tasted vaguely of coffee. His kisses were urgent, almost pained. Sherlock only pulled away to gingerly set his Stradivarius on one of the armchairs before wrapping his arms around John. Holding him tightly. Accepting his desperate kisses. Allowing him to relax. Melt.

There were tears on John's cheeks. Still falling from his eyes. Sherlock wiped some of them away with his thumb.

He didn't mind, just then. It was all right for John to cry on him.

The doctor pulled his jumper off, along with his undershirt, hands shaking as he started on Sherlock's buttons.

"Are you fucking Lestrade?" His voice was a quiet tremble.

"No."

"Don't lie, Sherlock. That makes it worse. Just tell me the truth."

"I am not having sex with Lestrade." Sherlock tangled his fingers into John's sandy hair. Not pulling, just caressing.

"You almost did though. You used to… Mycroft found me in the park… he said he was there when you texted Greg trying to set something up." John wasn't looking at him. John was crying harder. Sherlock pulled him in, let the tears fall on his shoulder.

"I did. I'm sorry."

He felt John tense for a moment. Looking up at him with wet eyes. Shocked. Sherlock almost never apologized. He _must_ understand.

"Really sorry, or sorry that I found out?" John choked the words out, in between shuddering breaths.

"Both."

He almost added—_watching you cry makes me feel ill and exceedingly guilty_. He stopped himself just in time.

John was fumbling with the zip of Sherlock's trousers. Pulling the waistband of his pants down along with them, everything pooling around Sherlock's ankles. Sherlock toed off his shoes, stepping out of his trousers, as he stripped John of the rest of his clothes quickly before pushing him onto the couch. Laying him out on his back. Sprawling on top of him. Kissing him. Trying to make the tears stop.

There was a bottle of lube stuffed between the cushions from a few nights ago.

Sherlock slipped two slick fingers inside John, scissoring, stretching. The sobs were quickly starting to mix with heated moans.

"I'm_ sorry_," Sherlock barely whispered past John's ear. It made the small army doctor shiver. He didn't mind saying it again. Perhaps he should keep saying it until John stopped crying.

He added another finger. Impatient to be inside John—make him feel good. Make him gasp and moan. Completely unravel him.

Sherlock slicked himself liberally then pressed the blunt head of his cock into John slowly. John wrapped his legs around the detective, rocking back against him. Calmly, steadily, Sherlock pushed into John, pausing when he was fully seated.

"Oh, fuck," John moaned.

And he began to thrust slowly, rhythmically. John felt so good—so hot and tight and absolutely perfect. Like he was made exactly for Sherlock. Like they were a purposely fitted to each other.

He angled upwards slightly, dragging across John's prostate in a relentless fashion.

When John let out a small whine, there was no longer any hint of sadness. Only want—need. Sherlock kissed him slowly.

There were so many things he didn't have the words to say. Formless ideas swirling around inside his brain, like shapes and colors that made him feel warm and achy.

John was like a wonderfully complex piece of music. He rendered Sherlock incapable of rational thought and, at the same time, gave him a sense of peace and tranquility.

He said the only thing he could really think of.

"I'm sorry."

John clutched at him helplessly, panting, squirming. Sherlock knew his sluggish movements weren't enough to make either of them come. Just keep them teetering on the verge of something spectacular. He wanted to stay like this forever. Walking the razor's edge.

In stretched out, stolen moments like these Sherlock could memorize every detail that was _John_ without the doctor noticing. Compact, stocky body. Smooth skin. Frighteningly expressive face. Scar on the shoulder. Light dusting of straw-colored hair on the chest. Powerful thighs, from running about london. Wet lips—just right for kissing. Dripping cock, begging for release.

Nothing mattered besides the contained world on that couch. The two of them. The tingling waves of pleasure. Reckless intoxication. Bodies sliding together. Fevered breathing.

"Sherlock," it was a small noise, "please."

_Anything for you, John._

Sherlock increased his speed, driving into John deeply, forcing guttural moans from his lungs. He wrapped his fingers around John's cock and began to stroke him in time with each thrust.

He could feel John's muscles fluttering around him. He pressed small kisses against the wet places on John's cheeks, the corners of his eyes, and on his nose—just because. Just as their lips met, he felt John shudder, clamp down around him, moan, dig his nails into Sherlock's back, go stiff, go limp, empty himself across his stomach.

The orgasm almost took Sherlock by surprise. The heat ripped through him even as John was still trembling, riding out the last few spasms. He was pulsing—inside John. Still kissing him. Holding onto him.

_Never leave_.

Sherlock's brain was swimming in a sea of oxytocin. He didn't want to pull out. He just wanted to lie there. Become a permanent part of John. Never be separate again.

"You're a right bastard," John sighed quietly. Running his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"I know."

"Please don't start doing awful things on purpose because the make-up sex is amazing." John expression was perhaps a little wistful—mostly tired—but not altogether that upset anymore.

"I won't." Sherlock planted a small kiss on the doctor's forehead.

"If I didn't know better, I say you'd just made love to me." John rolled his eyes and let a tiny smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "You didn't try to choke me, or bite me or anything."

Sherlock did not respond. He just held John a little bit tighter.

_Made love._

In all his life, he'd never called it that. Never had a reason to. He didn't want to think about it. But the idea was circling in like a vulture. Love was weakness. It served no purpose. All it did was make you vulnerable. Love made you lose control. Sherlock hated losing control.

He withdrew slowly, but didn't get up. He rested his head against John's chest and listened to his heartbeat as it slowed to a normal rate.

There was a singular spark of overwhelming anguish that washed through Sherlock's body. It didn't last long. Probably no more than a moment. But in that moment, he realized that John was vulnerable. John was out of control. John was hurting. John had cried. And Sherlock was the reason for all of it.

John loved him.

He looked up carefully. John's head was turned. His face was bathed in the calm afternoon sunlight. Every shadow and highlight was a stark relief of perfection. His sandy hair caught little flecks of pure gold and reflected them up for only Sherlock to see.

John loved him, and Sherlock was never, ever going to let him go.

* * *

_You made it! Hooray! You may thank __**wholockian729 **for beta-ing, and suggesting that maybe I shouldn't leave you with an abrupt cliff hanger (it was much worse before). _

_Your reviews, follows and favorites are the shining stars in the night sky of my life. Damn I sound melodramatic. But seriously. You people. You people are wonderful. Even though I'm tormenting you right now, trust that I do it out of love._

_Next Wednesday, there shall be a chapter of exceedingly kinky Johnlock porn, because I want to get the BDSM back up in this bitch. I've done my best to make it __**expressly **__consensual limit-pushing. And my, shall it be fun._

_Also, as of now I'm accepting any sex bunnies you want to throw at me. What's that you say? It's a variety of plot bunny, but mostly it's a suggestion of a place/circumstance in which you'd like to see Sherlock and John shag their brains out. Feel free to do that through a review or PM. If I think it fits, it shall be inserted. Teeeehhhhheeeeee._


	10. A Sultry Afternoon

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Fair warning: ALL the kinks. It would be easier to tell you what is not contained here. I'm just going to leave it at gratuitous BDSM. I'm not warning dub-con this time, as they have an established safeword and it's all consensual, so I don't think it should be majorly triggery for anybody. But if you're squeamish, perhaps this won't be your cup of tea. Otherwise just enjoy the smut, my lovelies._

* * *

John should have noticed the hook screwed into the ceiling when he walked in the door, but he didn't look up. To be fair, he was carrying three bags of groceries, and it was quite difficult not to overbalance. He stumbled into the kitchen, setting them down on the table, and took a deep breath.

"Sherlock?" He called to the seemingly empty flat. The detective had been sprawled across the couch when he'd left an hour and a half ago. But it was possible he'd gotten a call from Lestrade and gone down to the yard.

John gave a mental shrug and began to put away the perishables. Fitting the milk and eggs around the more questionable specimens in the refrigerator.

He was on to the dry goods before he heard a small squeak on the wood flooring. He placed the cereal box on the shelf and was in process of turning around, when Sherlock pinned him up against the counter.

"Sherlock, what—"

The doctor shivered as the taller man's teeth sank into the skin on the side of his neck. Sherlock's chest was pressed up against his back fully, fingers wrapped tightly around his hips, keeping him stationary, trapped against the counter. John let his hands drop to the cool granite surface just to stay steady.

"Don't move," Sherlock barely breathed.

It wasn't like John was going to anyway, but he tried to keep still as much as possible. Sherlock was holding something in one of his hands. A long, thick strip of black cloth.

"Close your eyes," Sherlock nipped at John's neck again.

And the doctor's eyelids fluttered shut.

Sherlock was tying the cloth around him, making everything a shade darker. It was snug, but not uncomfortable.

"Lift your arms." Sherlock's voice was still right by his ear.

John complied, and his jumper was promptly tugged up over his head. He felt Sherlock's thin fingers, unbuttoning his shirt, brushing over every bit of newly exposed skin. It gave John the shudders. It was a soft, tickling touch, and yet it was oddly arousing.

Sherlock's weight was no longer fully pressed against him. It seemed as if he'd stepped away. But then in a moment, the wet heat of a tongue was slowly tracing down the top of John's spine. He bit back a moan.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock rumbled, gripping John by the shoulders and turning him around.

Well that was a loaded fucking question, wasn't it?

"I—I think so."

"Good."

And then John was being pulled into a kiss. Sherlock's lips just touched against his softly at first. Closed, dry, but warm. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, pressing them together. John's erection was rapidly filling out, throbbing against the dull heat of Sherlock's already straining one. He parted his lips, and Sherlock's tongue swirled into his mouth. Claiming him, soothing him, taking complete control of the situation—as if he didn't have it already.

Sherlock stepped back again and grasped John's wrist firmly. He tugged the doctor towards the living room. John was a little uncertain, walking without being able to see. But he felt reasonably confident that Sherlock wouldn't let him run into anything.

He was led to some indecipherable place in the center of the living room and then released.

"Stay." Sherlock's voice was calm, yet commanding.

John ran his tongue along his lower lip reflexively. He felt a bit like he'd been set adrift at sea now that Sherlock was no longer touching him. They were still in the flat, in the parlor, but John didn't know exactly where in the room he was. He didn't know where Sherlock was, nor how long he was expected to just stand there. Perhaps a minute passed, but it felt like a lot longer. John didn't move.

"You're doing very well, John," Sherlock's voice was soft, coming from some distance in front of him. "Just let go. I'll take care of you. Relax."

John let some of the tension go out of his shoulders. He still stood straight, but not quite at attention. He focused on listening. He heard Sherlock's footsteps echo across the room. The clatter of metal—perhaps a chain? Then he felt the other man's presence, his body heat, directly in front of him.

Sherlock grasped John's right arm and lifted it slightly. He felt the soft press of velvet against his skin. Sherlock was fastening him into cuffs—but they weren't metal. They were still quite stiff, most likely some sort of thick leather. Once one of his wrists was secured, the other got the same treatment. John could feel that the cuffs weren't attached to anything yet, but got the distinct idea that they would be very soon.

"I'm going to be restraining you with your arms above your head for a considerable amount of time. If it becomes too uncomfortable, simply say—yellow. I will untie you, but I will take it to mean that you still want me to continue touching you. Do you understand?"

John nodded.

He heard the clink of a metal chain. His hands were pulled upwards and the cuffs were fastened above his head. He tugged, just to feel the restraint. If he stood up very straight, the stretch was not uncomfortable. But if he slouched, it put a strain on his shoulder.

There was a hand tangled in his hair. Wet lips pressed against him. He opened his mouth, searching to deepen the kiss, but Sherlock pulled away. Still stroking his hair.

"Promise me you'll safeword if I becomes too much to handle." Sherlock's voice was odd and quiet. It had a quality John had seldom heard before. Was it concern?

"I promise."

Sherlock stepped back, trailing his fingers across John's skin. This was going to be quite the afternoon.

* * *

John looked beautiful like that. Wrists wrapped in thick cuffs, attached to a chain that hung from the hook he'd screwed into the ceiling. Blindfolded. Flushed. Painfully aroused.

His tanned skin was a canvas, and Sherlock was going to make John his masterpiece—a jumble of pain, pleasure, and sheer want.

He quickly loosened the buckle of John's belt and slid it off slowly, before looping it and placing it around John's neck. He didn't pull it tight—just let it sit. Let John feel the leather against his skin and ponder what could be coming.

Next he unbuttoned John's trousers, pulled down the zip, and let them fall to the floor. He ran his fingers under the elastic of John's pants, dipping down, teasing, snapping it playfully against John's skin before pulling them down as well.

"Stand on your right foot."

Sherlock kneeled, and as John complied he carefully unlaced John's left shoe and removed it, pulling his sock off, along with the leg of his trousers.

"Very good, John, now your left."

The other shoe was also removed, with the trousers and pants. Then John was completely naked. Clothes deposited in a pile next to him.

Sherlock planted a small kiss on John's hipbone before standing and walking into the kitchen. He grabbed the ice tray out of the freezer, then strode back with careful, measured steps, until he was standing directly behind John. He could hear the increase in the doctor's breathing. He selected a single cube out of the tray and held it in his fingers.

The detective planted a small kiss on John's shoulder, licking along the wide stretch of skin towards his neck, and at the same time, pressed the ice cube to the small of John's back, right over his spine.

He felt John tense, shiver slightly, let out a gasp. Sherlock paused for a moment, before beginning to draw ornate little patterns with the ice cube. Exploring John's skin. Letting it melt to cold water on the smaller man's body.

Sherlock trailed around the doctor until he was in front of him once again, dragging the ice along the doctor's abdomen. He continued the patterns, before popping another ice cube into his own mouth. It was rather a struggle to hold it there. The cold hurt. He removed it after about thirty seconds, then dropped to his knees and took John's cock between his lips.

"Fuck," John hissed, obviously shocked at the cold wetness.

Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head of John's cock lazily. Letting him feel the cold slowly turn back into the warmth of body heat. He took John deeper into his mouth, to the back of his throat, but didn't let him stay there.

He pulled back, planting a wet kiss on the head of John's cock, but stayed on his knees. Trailing the ice along John's thighs. Across his arse cheeks. The cube was getting smaller—having melted all across John's body. It was roughly the circumference of a finger. He gently brushed it between John's arse cheeks, circling around his hole.

John jerked, and swore.

Sherlock licked the doctor's cock again, as a gentle reminder that everything was ok. Just relax.

He switched out the ice cubes, this time trailing up John's inner thighs, across his lower belly, down the shaft of his cock. Sherlock replaced the cold with the warmth of his tongue, licking along the trails of moisture the ice left on John's skin. Taking him into his mouth again for a few lazy swirls of his tongue around the head of John's cock.

John let out a breathless whine when Sherlock pulled back and stood up. He grabbed the end of the belt and pulled it tighter around John's neck, so it was restricting his airflow, but not cutting it off completely.

"Can you snap your fingers?" He asked in a low voice.

John snapped them, with only the suggestion of a command. The corners of Sherlock's mouth tugged upwards at that.

"Good boy. If you start to feel lightheaded, snap. I don't want you losing consciousness when the fun's barely started."

Then he tightened the belt, so the buckle was pressing into John's throat, leaving a mark. He counted to twenty before releasing. John gasped. Sherlock wrapped his fingers loosely around the doctor's cock and stroked it languidly.

"If you come without permission, you'll be very sorry." He nipped at John's lips. Then he pulled the belt tight again, counting to twenty-five, continuing to stroke John's cock. When he released, he felt John wobble slightly. He let go of the belt and placed a hand on the smaller man's shoulder to steady him.

"You're so pretty like this," he cooed softly in John's ear. "Helpless, vulnerable, and ravaged. You're going to be a mess by the time I'm done with you, Mr. Watson."

The detective drew back and walked over to his box of toys. He selected a small vibrator, plastic, with a bulged tip. He picked up the bottle of lubricant he'd set out next to the box and applied it liberally, squeezing it onto the toy and slicking his fingers.

He circled John, admiring the view before settling into a firm stance behind him. He thrust a finger into John's tight little hole without much preamble and was rewarded with a barely audible whimper.

"I like it when you're vocal," Sherlock growled, pushing further inside John, thrusting another finger into him. "What do you need, John? Tell me."

"You," John moaned.

"Full sentences, slut. We've talked about this."

"I need you inside me, Sher—"

The detective withdrew his fingers and gave John a quick swat on the arse.

"You will refer to me as Sir."

"Please fuck me, Sir," John grated out.

"There's a good boy," Sherlock spread John's thighs a bit further apart by pressing his knee between them. "Don't worry. I'll take such good care of you."

He slowly slid the head of the vibrator between John's arse cheeks. It probably felt like the head of a cock. He pressed it inside at a measured pace and John groaned. He waited until the toy was fully seated inside John's arse before turning it on.

* * *

John almost yelped at the sensation and then let out a string of curse words that would have embarrassed a sailor. The vibrator was pressing against his prostate. It felt sickeningly wonderful. Dangerously close to being over-stimulating. He'd never used a sex toy like this before. He was now regretting that life choice. He'd wasted so much time_ not_ feeling this way.

He squirmed and panted. Sherlock was holding onto him, keeping him steady, and gently undulating, thrusting the toy in and out ever so slightly.

Sherlock's erection was hot and heavy against John's arse cheek. He could feel it twitch through the fabric of the taller man's trousers. The skin on John's abdomen and thighs was still stiff gooseflesh from the ice. He could feel his blood pulsing, hear his heartbeat in his ears.

Not being able to see just seemed to take everything up another level. He could _feel_ so much. He was drowning, lost in wave after wave of tickling pleasure.

Almost. Not quite. So fucking close to something. Anything. His balls were tight. He felt the heat welling up inside him. He was a burning center of intensity around the buzzing vibrator.

"Close," he choked out.

"Well, then, you'd better start begging," Sherlock's words were calm and steady. Like a life jacket. Keeping him barely afloat.

"Please let me come, Sir," John moaned.

"Certainly you can do better than that."

"I—fuck—I'm almost there, Sir. I've never needed to come so badly. Please, I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Yes. Whatever you want. Just—oh god—"

John was right on the verge. Teetering. A sudden gust of wind would put him over the edge. His blood was on fire. Muscles constricting. The world crumbling beneath him.

"I own you, John. Say it."

"You own me, Sir," John barely managed to squeak.

"You're mine. Nobody else's."

"Only yours."

"Come. Now."

Everything seemed to implode. John felt his body clamp down, but the vibrations were still ricocheting through him. It was too much. The pleasure ripped through his body, wrecking him. His cock was jerking, spilling his jizz all over the floor.

The vibrator was still on. Shocking his spent nerve endings. He tried to jerk away from it, but Sherlock followed his motion. The pleasure was quickly turning into oversensitivity. The first hints of pain were biting at the edges of his reality.

"Too much," John panted.

"Is it really? I think I could make you come again like this," Sherlock held him still, so he couldn't move away.

Panic tore through John's brain. He suddenly felt trapped. Afraid. His utter helplessness hadn't struck him until that moment.

"Breathe, John."

Sherlock's voice was the only tangible thing in the world. He latched onto it. John breathed into the sensation. Let himself be overwhelmed by it.

The vibrator ceased motion. John let his muscles go slack. He leaned back into Sherlock slightly. The fear melted away.

He tried to relax as Sherlock withdrew the toy. His muscles clenched at it, trying to keep it inside his body, but eventually it popped out with a small, slick sound.

"My, my, you've made quite a mess of the floor. Perhaps I should make you lick it up." Sherlock's thumb trailed across John's lower lip. He shivered slightly just at the thought of being forced to lick his own come off the wooden floorboards.

But Sherlock made no move to untie him. Instead, his body heat disappeared again. John was floating. A strange calm had come over him. Perhaps it had been the intensity of the orgasm. The dump of reward chemicals into his brain.

Everything felt fuzzy and distant.

That is, until he heard the whistle of the riding crop, and the leather made firm contact with his arse. He jumped, letting out a high-pitched grunt.

"Count aloud, whore. If you mess up, we start again."

"One," John squeaked. Tensing. Bracing himself for another blow. It came with a startling swiftness and accuracy. Seemingly across the exact same place the other had landed.

"Two," his voice was all breathy. Almost a whine. He couldn't help it. Even though he'd just come, his cock was twitching.

He counted to twelve before Sherlock paused to give him a break. Those long, wonderful fingers were gently massaging his arse cheeks. Pressing at the already raw burn.

"Such a lovely little cock slave…" Sherlock pushed a finger back into John's stretched hole. "Still so slick, and sloppy for me. I can hardly decide if I want to fuck your mouth or shove my thick cock in your arse." He dragged against John's prostate and the doctor's body jolted involuntarily.

John bit his lip to keep from saying—_why not both, Sir?_

That was too cheeky. Sherlock would whip him again. Was that a thing he wanted or didn't want? It was getting more difficult to decide with each passing moment.

Sherlock withdrew his fingers and John heard his footsteps echo dully through the flat. Clattering, rummaging noises. Then he was back. Pressing something wide and blunt into John's arse.

"There we are. That'll keep you nice and stretched out so we have options for later."

John's muscles clenched around the object—some sort of arse plug. Thick, but not very long. He felt full, but not entirely uncomfortable.

Before John had much more time to ponder the situation, Sherlock had grabbed the end of the belt again, and had pulled it tight. John felt the walls closing in. It was an exquisite sort of fear. A particular kind of breathlessness. He hadn't been ready for it. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was holding it for longer, trying to push the limits, or he was just already a bit worn out. He was on the verge of snapping his fingers before Sherlock released him.

John heard the chains clatter above him and suddenly they were slack. Sherlock had a hand on John's shoulder.

"On your knees, slut."

There was a slight pressure to suggest Sherlock would force him downwards if he disobeyed. John kind of wanted that. Was it bad to want that? John kept standing, biting his lip.

"I said down."

Sherlock forced him down onto his knees. His hands jerked against the chains uncomfortably. In his new position, knees slightly bruised on the sticky floor, there was a bit more strain on his shoulder. He had to stretch his torso as long as it would go to keep it from hurting.

But he was kneeling in his own ejaculate, and it was wonderfully, burningly humiliating.

The riding crop crossed John's back three times in rapid succession. John squirmed and grunted.

"I don't hear you counting," Sherlock growled.

"Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen," John gasped.

The floor creaked. Sherlock was moving. His only hint as to what was coming was the clinking of Sherlock's belt buckle and the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Long fingers tangled in John's hair and kept him steady as the slick crown of Sherlock's cock pressed against his lips.

"Open up."

John parted his lips.

* * *

Sherlock groaned as he slid his cock into the wet heat of John's mouth. Usually he was gentle about blowjobs, but he got the distinct feeling that this particular time—John didn't want him to be. He thrust, the tip of his cock hitting the back of the doctor's throat. He felt John gag slightly, and pulled back just a little bit.

He tugged at John's hair, causing the smaller man to moan around him. And god_damn_ that was glorious.

Sherlock tried to set a rather slow pace—fucking John's mouth languidly. Enjoying the slide of his lips, and the intoxicatingly vague roughness of his tongue. But it was getting more difficult to control himself by the minute.

He brought the riding crop down against John's left arse cheek, watching him twitch with pain.

"Just because my cock is in your mouth, it doesn't mean you get to stop counting," Sherlock said harshly.

John mumbled something around his dick. It was entirely unintelligible. Sherlock debated making John start the counting all over again, forcing him up to the same number they'd left off at. But John chose that particular moment to hollow his cheeks and take Sherlock as far as he could and well—it was hard to focus on anything for a few moments.

Should he just give up and come down John's throat? It wouldn't be much longer. He'd been achingly hard for what seemed like a small eternity. And John really was getting better at taking cock. He'd learned a trick or two.

But oh—he'd gone through all that trouble to stretch John's arse out and get him all slick and ready. It'd be a shame to waste it.

Reluctantly he withdrew from John's mouth and began fumbling with the buckles around John's wrists.

"Stay perfectly still," he growled.

Of course, John didn't move a muscle.

He got the cuffs off without much trouble. John's wrists were rubbed a bit red and raw. But there was no blood.

He circled back around behind John. Instead of bothering to give an order, he just pushed John forward onto his hands and knees. Arse in the air. He looked quite nice like that.

Sherlock kneeled behind him and grasped the flared base of the plug. He withdrew it slowly. John made a small noise, but it didn't exactly sound like protest. It's not like there was any mystery as to what was coming.

First Sherlock stuck his finger in. John was still good and slicked up. He put one hand on John's shoulder, and positioned himself with the other. He pushed in against the minimal resistance John's body had to offer at that point of things, and was all the way inside the hot constriction of the smaller man within a few moments.

He slapped John's arse once, and then began to move. There wasn't much need to be particularly slow or gentle. John had come so recently. It was unlikely he'd be able to get hard again. It would still feel good, but the older man was probably spent for another hour at least.

So Sherlock drove into him. The room was filled with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, and John's fevered grunting.

"Do you like it when I use you like this?" Sherlock smacked John's red arse again.

"Yes. Sir." The doctor panted.

"Such a perfect little tart. Tell me how much you love having my cock inside you."

"It's—fuck—incredible. So big. Jesus."

That wasn't exactly a sentence, but Sherlock wasn't really in the mood to complain just then. He was so keyed up. Wound tight. Ready to explode at any moment.

He moved his hands to John's hips, digging his nails in.

"Shall I fill you up with my come? Tell me you want it."

"I want your come, sir." John's voice was trembling. His entire body was trembling.

God. The words burned through Sherlock's body. His balls were tightening. The pressure was building. It was entirely too much.

He came with a shout.

Pulsing inside John. Flooding him with all his pent up desire. He stayed inside him. For about a minute. Slowly coming down. Rubbing gently circles on his back.

He withdrew and undid the knot of the blindfold. He helped John to a standing position. Wrapped him in a hug. Held him. John's legs were shaky. He was still breathing erratically.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered. Still gently rubbing across the angry red marks on John's back.

John seemed to have gone nonverbal.

It wasn't such an uncommon thing. After a scene ended, the adrenaline stopped. All the pain and previously numbed sensations slowly began to seep back.

He gently led John to the bedroom. Set him on the mattress. Had him lie on his side so he could avoid putting pressure across anywhere that would sting.

Sherlock settled down next to him. Facing him, so he could monitor him for signs of discomfort. John closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. There was a small smile on his lips. Even though Sherlock knew that John probably felt raw, and over stimulated, he couldn't help but touch him. Just an arm draped over him.

_You own me, Sir_—John's voice echoed through Sherlock's head over and over again.

Perhaps he'd gotten other people to say it before. But they'd said it only so he'd let them come. It had only mattered in the heat of the moment.

But this did matter—because John belonged to him. Completely.

* * *

_Thanks go to __**wholockian729 **__for doing what she does._

_Your reviews, follows and favorites give me ALL the warm fuzzies. Have I mentioned that I love you guys? I have. I'll say it again. I LOVE you, and I refuse to be ashamed of it. I will scream about my love from the rooftops, and the neighbors will file a noise complaint, and it will be worth it._

_Many of you have recognized my angst-porn-angst-porn pattern. So buckle your safety belts for next Wednesday, because things are about to get quite bumpy._

_And finally, here's the shameless self-promotion. Feel free to tune it out._

_The Sequel to my other fic, "A Study In Shagging" will be posted on Saturday. It's called __**"Almost Like a Virgin**__."_

_Also, I'm starting a series of Sherstrade vignettes that will be posted every Sunday. It will be called __**"I'd Arrest You if I Had Handcuffs**__."_


	11. The Choking Game

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they aren't doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Fair Warning: All Sherlock's POV. And Oh dear. Oh me oh my. Um... I didn't mean to. Jim Moriarty just kind of showed up and took over this chapter. So I'll warn you for Jim-related insanity. Also, I don't really know what other warnings to put. There's some consent play going on. It all revolves around Sherlock's control freak issues more than it has anything to do with sex, so... dubiously consensual power dynamics? Is that a thing? Also, sex with hitting and breath holding and such. I know this is going to be rough. But just stick with it. There will be fluffing next week! Or... at least the closest thing I do to fluffing, which is shameless porn followed by snuggling!_

* * *

"Stop fussing, you look fine," Sherlock drawled lazily as he sipped his tonic water.

No Gin. He was here to observe, but he wanted it to look like he was participating.

John let out a small, frustrated noise, and stopped toying with the hem of the exceedingly tight t-shirt Sherlock had bought for him. Sherlock had looked through John's closet for a solid twenty minutes and found nothing that would be acceptable. So he'd taken responsibility for wardrobe. At least for this case.

They were leaning against a far corner of the bar. Moderately paced electronic dance music was thumping through the room. The bass was so loud and low, Sherlock felt like his bones were vibrating. He'd never been much for clubbing.

But this case was too interesting to pass up.

There was a drug smuggling ring operating out of this particular club. Usually boring. But there had been several rather grisly, and oddly public murders linked with this particular operation. It had Jim Moriarty's fingerprints all over it. Probably just a side job, just for the money, but Sherlock needed to investigate. It always paid to know what your arch nemesis was up to.

Also, dressing John up like his own personal ken doll and dragging him out to a club was a bit of a bonus.

He was just so cute when he was embarrassed.

Sherlock had bought him a pair of sinfully tight black jeans and a dark blue shirt that brought out his eyes. Far too young-looking. That only made it more adorable. John wasn't in the habit of wearing anything that fit him properly. It was new to see him dressed in something so utterly skin-hugging. Sherlock had been half hard ever since they'd walked in.

Men had been throwing both of them a lot of glances. Whenever they did, Sherlock would reach over and brush John's hair back out of his face, or touch him on the shoulder, or even slide a hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

_Back off, he's mine._

It wasn't explicitly a gay club, but it seemed that most of the clientele either played both sides of the fence, or was exceedingly queer friendly. Men dancing with men. Women with women. Everyone with each other. Nobody batted an eye at any of it.

John gulped down another shot of whiskey. It was his third. Sherlock hadn't told him to get drunk, but he had offered to pick up the tab on any and all drinks. It was just as well. John wasn't the one who needed to stay focused. He was only there because Sherlock had dragged him along.

The song changed. Disco. The dance floor became an even larger mess of sweating bodies rubbing up against each other. Sherlock had never been fond of the idea of touching that many strangers. But he looked over at John. The doctor was watching intently.

"Would you like to dance? Don't let me stop you." Sherlock let a small smirk slide across his face.

"Not dressed like this."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"These clothes leave very little to the imagination."

"And?"

"I don't want to be dry humped by a bunch of random men, all right? I'm not gay."

Sherlock let out a small snort at that. "How many times have you had my cock up your arse this week?"

"Six. That's not the point. That's you. It's different."

"Fine. There are women here too, you know."

"You've dressed me like a sodding rent boy. You really think any women are going to want to dance with me?"

"I've heard metrosexuals are actual quite popular."

John did not respond, and proceeded to order another whiskey.

Sherlock swept his eyes around the room. Nothing particularly suspicious. A few men stumbled out of the bathroom, obviously high. But they'd probably brought their own. The place didn't have any telltale signs of a drug ring. But then again, if Moriarty was behind it, that all made sense.

If anything, this was probably just the place where he brought all his contacts together. Quite clever, really. With music so loud, and so many people, nobody would notice a few nefarious characters here or there. The actual drugs were probably handled at a separate location. But this seemed like it may be a place where money changed hands.

A queer club was also quite the unexpected front for a money laundering operation. Nobody from the Yard would go nosing about a place called "_Tease_" unless they had a really good reason. And if Jim Moriarty was good at anything, he was good at evading capture. The man was nearly untraceable unless he wanted to be found.

That's where Sherlock came into the picture.

He'd spotted Moriarty about ten minutes ago. In the middle of the packed dance floor. He looked like he'd reverted to a much more trampy version of his "Jim from IT" character. Perhaps it had been a more accurate self-portrait than Sherlock had first realized.

It was an odd thing to see a criminal mastermind in neon-pink skinny jeans and a sailor-striped v-neck that plunged about halfway down his chest. He was acting like he was very drunk, or perhaps even on MDMA, but Sherlock suspected that he was stone sober. One of his informants must have alerted him to Sherlock's presence. There was no other reason for him to make an appearance.

Now the question was how to get to the middle of the dance floor without John also noticing that Moriarty was here. He would panic. And no doubt, if Sherlock went to dance without him, he would watch. He would see. The only thing for it was to get them both lost in the crowd.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's shoulder and pulled the doctor into a kiss before John had time to think about it, or protest. It was a rather nice feeling. Sliding his tongue against John's with such a large audience. Not that most of them were paying attention. But he was certain they'd just earned themselves more than a few jealous glances. Then he grabbed hold of John's hands and pulled him out onto the dance floor. The doctor didn't bother to struggle. Sherlock pressed up against John's back and moved his hips to the beat, grinding against the smaller man.

John moved a bit stiffly at first, but soon he relaxed.

"I'd never figured you'd be one for dirty dancing," he leaned his head back against Sherlock's chest and looked up at him.

"Why not?" Sherlock smiled.

"I dunno. I'd always thought you'd be more the type to walk into a club and try to start a tango or a waltz."

"I'm not _that_ posh, John."

"I know. But this is still funny."

Sherlock pulled John a bit closer to him and nipped at his neck. "Is it now?" He snaked a hand down to the front of John's trousers and rubbed his rapidly forming erection through the fabric of his jeans. John let out a small groan. "After I've cracked this smuggling ring, want to go shag in the men's toilet?"

"You're an exhibitionist lunatic, and I'm classier than that."

"Oh come on. We fucked in the back of a cab."

"I was much more drunk."

"You loved it."

"Shut up."

Sherlock had never been particularly fond of dancing, but this wasn't so bad. It more resembled foreplay than anything else. He was half tempted to forget why he came here and just run off to have John right then. But he knew that would _really_ upset Moriarty, and that wasn't exactly what he wanted to do. An evil genius that was obsessed with you was one thing. An evil genius that was obsessed, jealous, and angry was quite another.

Two more songs. Perhaps ten minutes, Sherlock stayed pressed up against John. Then he leaned down to talk in his ear.

"Would you like another drink?"

"Yeah—all right," John nodded.

"Stay here. I'll bring it back for you."

John turned around and looked up at him.

"What if I can't find you again? This is a pretty big place, Sherlock."

Sherlock slipped a fifty-pound note into John's pocket, while kissing him so he wouldn't notice. If he really did get tied up with Moriarty for too long, he wanted John to have a way home. "You can wait for me at the front. But I promise I'll be right back."

Sherlock gave John another small kiss, and then melted away into the crowd. Twenty minutes. That would be an appropriate amount of time. Enough time to have a little chat, without John getting too worried.

It didn't take him long to find Jim. He was dancing with a tall, over-muscled blonde man, but the second he saw Sherlock he slid away from the other man and approached.

When he was standing in front of Sherlock, Jim turned around and began grinding his arse against him. Sherlock knew it was probably a bad idea to let that happen. But this was Jim's playing field. His rules. There were worse things than dancing.

Sherlock's hands fell to rest on Jim's hips. It was strange how different Jim looked when he wasn't wearing a suit. He seemed so much smaller, thinner—almost innocent. Of course, there was nothing innocent about Jim Morairty. This was just a costume put on for the show. But it was still rather disarming.

"My, my, is this for me?" Jim pushed back pointedly against Sherlock's erection. "I always thought it would be big, but I must say I'm impressed.

"I'm sure you saw me dancing with John," Sherlock drawled.

"Why _did_ you bring your pet along?" Jim turned his head slightly, pouting. "That's going to make this all terribly inconvenient."

"I'm just here to talk, Jim."

"Talk and rub your hard-on against me, apparently."

Sherlock pulled back slightly. Jim spun around to face him, and draped his arms over Sherlock's shoulders.

"So what's a prissy little thing like you doing in a place like this?" Jim raised his eyebrows. "Are you more fun than I realized or are you here about something boring?"

"If you don't know why I'm here, then I was right, and the Yard was wrong. As usual. This isn't where your drug-smuggling ring is based. This is your meeting place or all your different clients."

"The more entertaining ones," Jim bit his lip. "I tell them to come here, then I frolic about and watch them, and they never know. Sometimes if I'm feeling really naughty, I pick them up, and shag them. Then I enjoy the look on their faces when they officially meet me a few days later and realize they've had the world's most fabulous consulting criminal."

"You and your games." Sherlock tried to sound bored. He really did. But it was a bit difficult when Jim was practically humping his thigh. "Are you drunk?" He raised his eyebrow, trying to move away again. But that just made Jim pull him back closer.

"Not in the slightest." Moriarty's eyes were wide and dark, and his voice had lost a considerable amount of the singsong quality it had earlier. "Why did you come here if you didn't want to play?"

"I told you. Lestrade sent me. You must know the Yard's been sniffing around."

"But you knew you'd find me here." It was not a question. Jim's face was suddenly a lot closer to Sherlock's than it was a few seconds ago. He could feel Jim breathing. He was a bit dizzy. "Admit it. You'd love to shag me six ways from Sunday, and the best part about it, is that I'd never let you. We'd have a knock-down drag out brawl, and the possibility that I might come out on top scares the hell out of you."

"You'd never be able to physically over power me," Sherlock snarled.

"No… but I don't play fair. And your weak spot is ever so obvious. I've already strapped a bomb to it. I could do much worse, trust me."

"That's boring. And it's more than a bit pathetic if the only way you can get me into bed is by threatening John." Sherlock hoped he sounded cold and detached. But a bit of his concern probably showed through, because Jim let out a small giggle.

"I am a bit of a hopeless romantic. Maybe if you'd just admit that you're head over heels in love with him, I'd reconsider throwing him off a bridge because he's in the way of what I want… or maybe that would just make me want to kill him even more. I do get a bit manic sometimes. Even _I'm_ never sure exactly what will happen if I don't get my way."

Sherlock threw a nervous glance over his shoulder. John was nowhere to be seen. Moriarty reached up and grasped Sherlock's chin with his thumb and index finger, turning Sherlock's head towards him again.

"This is about _us_ as long as you pay attention. If you lose focus, I can see to it that Johnny boy doesn't leave this club alive. And you bet that lovely arse of yours I can make it look like an accident."

Sherlock stiffened. Adrenaline pounding through his veins. That wasn't good. A rush was a rush as far as his brain chemistry was concerned.

"Good boy," Jim whispered in his ear, "doesn't it feel nice to just _let go_ and do what I say?"

Sherlock reached up and gripped the back of Jim's neck so that the smaller man stilled. Eyes widened slightly.

"You may have the advantage of setting," Sherlock's voice was low and threatening. The kind of tone that made most people shrink and try to get away from him as quickly as possible. "But do not think you have complete control of the situation."

"Ooooohh," Jim tittered, "I do love a challenge."

Before Sherlock could fully understand what was happening, Jim's hands were on Sherlock's hips, forcibly turning him around. Jim was pressed up against his back. Arms wrapped around his waist. Surprisingly strong grip. Sherlock could still easily pull away. He was about to, before Jim made a small _tisk _sound.

"Come now, darling. No reason to splatter Johnny's brains all over the floor just because you won't dance with me."

Jim's erection was hot and heavy against Sherlock's arse. He wanted so badly to move away from it. But he was trapped. Not physically. Mentally. That was new.

"Has anyone ever taken you?" Jim laughed, grinding into him playfully.

"That's none of your business," Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"That's a sore spot, isn't it? You don't like it. The idea of a cock inside you is scary. Did someone touch you when you were a child?"

"No," Sherlock replied curtly.

"But Sherlock," Jim pressed a small kiss against Sherlock's shoulder, "you were still _legally_ a child, if nothing else. Anthony Moore, wasn't it? Violinist?"

Sherlock's blood ran cold. How could Jim possibly know about that?

"Ah yes," Jim's voice was quiet, almost dangerous. "I bet he fucked you good, didn't he? Made you moan, and writhe, and come all over yourself. It's all rather undignified, isn't it? Giving it up to someone."

"Shut up," Sherlock growled, even though he knew better.

"I could be _gentle,_" Jim purred. "All you need to do is surrender. Just let me take care of everything. I bet we'd fit together beautifully."

"I don't want you."

"Now that's just an awful little lie."

Jim reached down and pointedly palmed Sherlock's still throbbing erection. Well damn it all to hell if that wasn't a fucking _familiar_ move.

"I don't want to want you," Sherlock snapped.

"It's awful seeing yourself for what you really are, isn't it?" Jim's mouth was next to his ear. "Prey turned into a predator to hide the pain."

"If either of us is the predator, it's you, Jim."

"I won't deny it. But that's the difference between you and me. I'm a sadist and I know it. You're just _confused._"

He nipped at Sherlock's neck ever so slightly. And fuck. An odd shiver shot through his body. He didn't like this game. Everything was spinning out of control. He couldn't put on the breaks.

"So what about you then?" Sherlock asked coldly. "Did Daddy used to give you cigarette burns when you spilled milk on the carpet?"

"Why does it matter? Perhaps nobody made me this way. Perhaps I was just born to cause pain. That would be more interesting, don't you think?"

"But it's not true."

Jim squeezed Sherlock's arse.

"I bet you've wondered what it would be like to have my cock inside you. Even if you only wondered for a second. In fact, since I just put the image in that wonderfully large brain of yours—you can't possibly not be thinking about it right now."

"Changing the subject because you're uncomfortable? That's rather telling, Jim." He shied away from Jim's touch as much as he could without totally breaking contact.

"You can think whatever you like about my past. I'd be ever so interested in hearing your theories about it someday. But does it really matter who started to ruin us? I don't think so—because collapse is a long artistic process. Dear Anthony was just your catalyst, Mr. Holmes. I'm here to finish the job."

The song changed. Sherlock didn't say anything. He was feeling too claustrophobic to speak. Jim wrapped his spiderlike limbs around Sherlock even tighter. Pulling him deadly close.

"You're going to feel so much, Sherlock," Jim barely whispered. "We're going to hurt each other so _badly, _in the end."

"Try not to sound so excited," Sherlock's voice was odd and tight.

Suddenly, Jim released him. Sherlock turned around to see what had caused the abrupt change in game play.

And then Jim's fingers were tangled in Sherlock's hair, pulling him downwards.

Their lips were mashed together.

Sherlock's brain shorted out. Went offline entirely. That was the only explanation. If he'd been coherent—and at all sane—his lips wouldn't have moved against Jim's. He wouldn't have allowed their tongues to swirl together, to send a choking heat through his body.

It wasn't like kissing John, or Lestrade, or any of the other men and women Sherlock had kissed before.

It was a battle, and Sherlock lost. As much as they vied for dominance, Jim always seemed to find the high ground. He didn't just take control. He yanked it away. His teeth and lips and tongue pummeled Sherlock into submission, until he couldn't make any more advances. Only try to parry Jim's movements defensively.

Sherlock was under water. Drowning. Jim's hands were on him. Tugging at his hair and his clothes. It all felt so filthy. Wrong. This was so wrong.

_John._

Sherlock jerked back, panting. Jim looked utterly gleeful. But he didn't pull Sherlock back in. Just ran his tongue along his lower lip.

"Dear me, quite the sinful little kisser, aren't we Mr. Holmes?" he laughed harshly.

Sherlock straightened up, smoothing the wrinkles out of his suit. He didn't say anything. Just stared Jim down as icily as possible.

"Oh, come on. It's all right. Admit it. You _liked _it... I can give you things your pet never could. Isn't it boring to always get what you want? Don't you ever wonder what it's like to be bested at your own game?" Jim's voice was quiet. Barely audible above the music.

"You can force me to play, Jim," Sherlock said dryly, "perhaps I'd even enjoy it in the moment. But you wouldn't win. If John's my weakness, then I'm yours. You've made it perfectly obvious. And I'll never give you what you really want."

"We'll just see about that..." Jim raised his eyebrows. Then his phone went off. _Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive. _He simply looked down at the caller I.D. then back to Sherlock. "Well, I'd better dash, darling. A criminal empire doesn't run itself. But I'll be in _touch._"

And Jim seemed to disappear into the crowd, right before Sherlock's eyes.

He stood for a moment, staring at the blank space in front of him before he shook himself and headed back to the bar. Two whiskeys. He downed his in one gulp—mostly to kill the taste of bubblegum that Jim had left in his mouth, but also perhaps to steady himself. He felt oddly shaky.

He closed his eyes for a moment and saw flashes of Anthony's face. It swirled together, mingling with Jim's. Losing control.

An intense sort of panic clutched at his chest. Constricting. Burning. For the span of a few seconds, he even felt the first hint of tears burning behind his eyeballs. He took a shuddering breath. He needed to find John then get the fuck out.

Sherlock took the other glass in hand, and then began the rather arduous process of searching for John in the sea of warm bodies. He was thankful for his own height. After perhaps five minutes, he spotted John against the far wall. Sandwiched between two rather attractive lesbians.

The crowd parted easily enough. He hitched a calm expression across his face and then he was right next to John, pressing the glass into his hand. The two girls smiled up at him. One had short, peacock blue hair, while the other's head was shaved entirely. Both skinny with large breasts. John was smiling like an idiot.

"This you boyfriend then, Johnny?" The blue haired one tittered.

John looked at Sherlock and then back at the girl—seemingly at a loss for words. Why not humor him?

"Yes," Sherlock smiled, "I hope you've been taking good care of him for me.

"Of course. We've been fending off the horny drunks left and right," the other girl giggled.

They separated slightly, allowing Sherlock to reach out and draw the smaller man into his arms. The two girls became entangled once again.

"You're a beautiful couple," blue hair bit her pierced lip.

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded, "the two of you are as well."

Then he leaned down to whisper into John's ear. "Shall we leave soon? We're not going to be finding any drug cartels here, and I've been thinking about ripping those clothes off you all evening."

Sherlock smirked at the way John's squirmed against him. "Um, yeah. I'm ready when you are."

"Aw, Johnny!" The blue haired girl pouted, "Are you leaving?"

"Afraid so," John shrugged.

The girls whispered something to each other. Then the one with the shaved head spoke up. "Letti here's a bit obsessed with gay blokes. Would you two terribly mind letting her watch you kiss before you go?"

"Not at all," Sherlock answered for them.

His stomach was still twisting slightly. He felt raw and there was still a strange, clenching sensation in his chest. But John would suspect something if Sherlock refused to kiss him. John was not the problem anyway. If anything, he was the solution.

Sherlock gently cupped the smaller man's chin and pulled him into a soft kiss. Pleasant. Slow. He kept his lips firmly closed at first, before carefully flicking his tongue into John's mouth and tasting him.

John let out a small, involuntary whimper. Arms wrapped around each other. Tangled. Sherlock's leg was between John's thighs, pressing at his erection. Their tongues swirled together, sending shocks of excitement through both of their nerve endings.

This was right. Oh so right. _I'm sorry John. _

When they broke apart, John's cheeks were flushed. They were both breathing a bit heavily.

"Hot damn," the blue haired girl groaned.

"Indeed. And that's just the beginning," Sherlock smiled. "Goodnight, ladies."

Then he was pulling John towards the door. He couldn't stand being in that club another minute. He needed to clear his head. Needed a moment to sort out all the confusing feelings drifting around in his brain, and such a feat would be impossible when surrounded by so many conflicting perfumes and gratingly loud noises.

Mostly, though, he just needed John. Needed to press up against him and let everything else melt away.

* * *

"I want you to hurt me."

Sherlock said it in the most sober tone he could muster. John drew back slightly. They were sprawled across Sherlock's bed. Naked. They'd been kissing feverishly, and suddenly everything was very still.

"Sorry, what?" John blinked.

"Hurt me, John. Slap me, bite me—make me bleed."

John was silent for a moment. Sherlock shifted around on the bed. He wasn't sure if he'd just accidentally stepped over one of those boundary lines John had drawn in his head. But he had to ask.

He needed this. To give John just a little bit of control and see what he'd do with it. He needed the pain to clear his head. And maybe... he really needed to prove Jim Moriarty wrong. To see that John could give him the same feelings of shocked helplessness. Not because he wanted it. But because it scared him. It was far better to confront the terror head on than to let it ambush him later.

"I…"

"That's an order, John," Sherlock said softly.

He wasn't sure whether or not he wanted John to know how frightened he was. The room was dark, just moonlight streaming in through the window. This was Sherlock at his most vulnerable. Floundering in emotion.

But maybe John didn't see.

Maybe he shouldn't see.

Regardless, it was much better to _give_ John this power than it was to let Jim Moriarty take it. This was a horrible, but necessary experiment.

The bed springs squeaked. John clambered over so he was straddling Sherlock. His motions were timid and rather uncertain, but it looked like perhaps he was going to comply.

"Why do you want this?" John asked quietly. He placed his hands on Sherlock's chest. The contact was oddly comforting.

"I…." _I'm_ _so fucking scared and this is the only thing that's going to help me._ "Please, John. Just do this for me"

It came too quickly for Sherlock to anticipate it. The resounding_ smack _of flesh against flesh, the stinging pain in his cheek. John had slapped him.

Sherlock's breathing quickened. His cock was throbbing. His whole body was tingling. The world had zeroed in on John Watson. He was the only thing that ever was or ever would be.

"Again," Sherlock said in a choked tone.

But John did not slap him again. Instead the hand that was still resting on his chest migrated upward slightly and John's fingers pinched around the tender pinkness of Sherlock's nipple. He twisted. Hard. Sherlock shuddered and gasped.

Then John was leaning down, his teeth sinking into the skin on Sherlock's neck. His muscles went slack. White flag. Surrender.

Oh god.

John was breathing heavily, raking his fingernails up the sides of Sherlock's torso. Nipping and sucking at his neck. Leaving bruises. Some of the bites stung more than others. Sherlock wondered if he was bleeding yet. He was certainly surfing on a large wave of endorphins, so blood loss seemed like a distinct possibility.

His senses had gone dull and fuzzy at the edges. John was rutting against him, grinding their cocks together. The smaller man's hands were on Sherlock's hips, nails digging in. Strange pleasure pulsed through him. Trapped. Adrenaline pounding.

The swell of heat was spreading through him like a flash-flood. Frenzy. Vague disassociation. Fuck yes. His nerves were buzzing. Pulsing with drastically mixed signals. _Run away. More, more, more. _Fear was a strange sort of aphrodisiac. Perhaps it was the novelty. But whatever the reason, Sherlock's cock was aching. The slide of his flesh against John's was utterly intoxicating.

Sherlock couldn't move. Didn't want to. He just lay there as John thrust against him. The occasional flares of pain kept him anchored, but didn't give him time to think.

Because if he did think, he would realize that John was fucking him. John was on top of him, making him hurt, and even though the doctor's cock wasn't actually inside Sherlock—John had all the power.

And Sherlock was in a spiral. Drifting. Everything was a blur and it didn't matter. John's hand was around his neck, squeezing down on his windpipe, and when drawing a breath wasn't a possibility—everything went blank.

John let go of his neck. A small whine escaped Sherlock's throat.

"Choke me," he said in an odd gravely voice.

"I just did," John growled.

"No. Make me faint."

"That's dangerous." John's hand was still resting across Sherlock's collarbones. "If you want to go unconscious, just hold you breath.

"Put your hand over my mouth."

John's palm pressed into Sherlock's lips. Sherlock started to hyperventilate. Breathing through his nose. He'd done this a few times in high school. The key was to breathe rapidly until you started to feel light-headed and then hold your breath.

Sherlock's brain was spinning.

The dull pleasure of John's cock rubbing against his was gradually building. It felt like his core was on fire. His balls were tightening.

Shit. He was going to come.

He stopped breathing. Holding it. The corners of his vision were splotchy, like a burnt film reel. He was giddy. Floating like he was on laughing gas. The tingling pleasure pulsed through him.

His cock was jerking. Bones vibrating. He was covering them both in ejaculate.

Then the world went dark.

* * *

"Sherlock? Are you ok?"

The detective's eyes opened slowly. He felt slightly nauseous. But that was a common side effect of choking oneself into a stupor.

John's cheeks were flushed and he was breathing heavily. Must have come while Sherlock was blacked out.

Sherlock nodded, though everything was a bit shaky. John was still on top of him. He couldn't have been out for more than thirty seconds.

He wrapped his arms around the smaller man, pulling him in close, even though they were both quite sticky. His brain was still too fuzzy to really find any words that made sense.

They lay like that for a long while. John's fingers were tangled in Sherlock's hair, stroking it slowly.

"While that was certainly different," the doctor chuckled.

"Yes."

"Did you like it?"

"Are you or are you not covered in my come?" Sherlock snorted.

"No need to be snarky."

There was a small pause. It felt like John wanted to ask something. But Sherlock couldn't quite guess, and it seemed like John wasn't going to say.

"This isn't going to happen all the time," Sherlock mumbled after a moment. "I just wanted to try it."

"That's fine… so that was all just an experiment?"

Sherlock bit his lip slightly. Was it a trick question? John didn't seem angry, so probably not.

"Kind of," he answered after a few deep breaths.

"All right."

John shifted to a slightly more comfortable position, but stayed sprawled on top of Sherlock. The smaller man's weight was comforting. Anchoring. Safe. Had Sherlock ever felt safe before he met John?

No. Not really. Not like this, were he could lie here forever doing nothing and not mind it in the least.

* * *

_Sigh of relief. Shall we cuddle? I need a cuddle after that._

_My Beta's computer is having a melt down once again, so all mistakes are mine, and I'll be fixing them as I find them._

_Your reviews, follows and favorites make me dance around my room and sing gleeful renditions of old Frank Sinatra songs. You think I'm joking. I'm not._

_Next Wednesday, there will be an all John's POV chapter, and I promise I will try not to angst so much. You know what that means. More kinky sex! Yay!_


	12. Up Against the Wall

_Fair warning: MORE SEX IN PUBLIC! HOORAY!_

* * *

Calling Greg Lestrade wasn't exactly at the top of John's "things I would really like to do" list. But Sherlock was bored, and John was almost at his wit's end. The detective hadn't said anything. He'd just been staring out the window listlessly for what seemed like days. He hadn't touched his violin, or done any experiments, or even sneaked a cigarette when John wasn't looking.

Ever since they'd gone to that gay club, Sherlock had been acting very strangely. He was oddly twitchy. And when he wasn't jumping at the sound of a door slamming, he was in a lethargic funk.

But perhaps the strangest thing was how physical Sherlock had gotten. Whenever John walked by, Sherlock pulled him down to the couch, and wrapped his arms around him, and sometimes wouldn't let him back up for over an hour. It wasn't even sexual. He just seemed to need the touch. Perhaps he was trying to anchor himself in reality.

John wondered if it was all because of what they'd done. Of course, Sherlock had asked for John to hurt him. Demanded it, even. But John should have probably realized then that something was wrong—instead of just going along with things in the heat of the moment.

Of course, every time John asked, Sherlock said he was "fine" and continued to stare blankly into space.

Something had to be done.

So John paced in his room, staring at his mobile. He hadn't really talked to Greg since the Mycroft incident. Really, he didn't want to hold a grudge. But it was difficult not to feel the bile rise in his throat when he thought about Sherlock and Greg together.

It was one thing to think about it in the past. But quite another to imagine Sherlock getting so bored, that he did it again.

John took a deep breath and pressed the call button. There were three rings before Lestrade picked up.

"John," he sounded slightly uncertain.

"Hi Greg," John tried to smile through his voice. "How is everything?"

"Not to bad. Busy, but you know. How are you?"

"Can't complain…" the silence drew out rather uncomfortably. John cleared his throat. "Listen, I was actually wondering if you had any interesting cases on. Sherlock's well… he's bored."

"Ah, right, say no more," Greg chuckled. "I was actually hoping to hear from him about that investigation I'd sent you two on last week. But he hasn't been picking up his mobile since he gave me the cursory report."

"Really?" Something in John's chest felt oddly heavy.

"Yeah—I mean, it's no problem. I guess we were looking in the wrong place for the drug ring after all but… well I dunno. We're all kind of at a loss for what to do down here. So if you could get him to come help, that'd be fantastic."

"Well, no promises. But I'll see what I can do. Shall we try to drop by this afternoon, then?"

"Sure. That'd be great."

There was another pause. John swallowed hard. Should he say something?

"Um," Greg sounded like he was wincing, "I'm sorry about Mycroft."

Well that wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting. But—well it was a nice thought anyway.

"It's not your fault," John sighed. "The Holmes Men do what they like."

"I know. But he told me about what happened—well, I'm sure his account is different than what actually happened—but when you read between the lines, it seems like he acted like a complete arse."

"That's putting it a bit mildly," John snorted in spite of himself.

"And well, I don't know what he told you exactly, but… John, I'd never want to do anything to hurt you. God knows. And I definitely don't want to get in the middle of whatever's going on between you and Sherlock."

John suddenly felt a bit disgusted with himself. How could he have ever doubted Lestrade's wonderfulness?

"Well, thanks Greg. And that same goes for you. Mycroft's all yours."

"Thanks. He can be a bastard sometimes but well—you know."

"Yes I do."

"We're bloody idiots for putting up with them, aren't we?" Lestrade laughed.

"Probably. But who'd really blame us?"

"True. Well, I'll see you two later then?"

"Hopefully. If I can get Sherlock out of the house."

"Best of luck with that."

"Thanks, Greg."

John rang off and descended the stairs. Sherlock as exactly where John had left him. Sprawled across the couch. Staring at the ceiling. The doctor approached. Sherlock lifted his legs so John could sit underneath them. John did, and the taller mans calves came down across his thighs.

"Feel like leaving the flat yet?" John asked in what he hoped was a joking tone. Sherlock just grunted in response. John rested a hand on Sherlock's knee. "Look, either we're going down to the Yard to go help Lestrade or you're going to tell me what's bothering you. You've had sulks before, but this is downright painful to watch."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock said flatly.

"If you don't tell me, I'm going to guess," John cocked an eyebrow.

"You'd be wrong."

"Is it—"

"No."

"You didn't even let me finish," John huffed.

"You were about to ask if it was because I told you to hurt me. The answer is no."

John was a bit surprised by how much tension he felt drain out of his body at that. So it wasn't his fault. Thank god. But then, what?

"Well come on then. I'm an idiot who can't figure it out. Help me." He smiled. Usually flattery would get you everywhere.

Sherlock sighed.

"My mobile is in my pocket."

John pulled it out for him and opened it. There were twelve new text messages from a number he didn't recognize.

"Go on," Sherlock drawled.

John clicked on the most recent one.

**I think you would look good with my initials carved into your abdomen. Don't you? - JM**

"_Jesus_," John breathed.

"He's rather in a mood. The texts have been growing steadily more violent and sexually explicit," Sherlock said evenly. "I've been mostly ignoring it. But that hasn't really dissuaded him."

"Shit. Should we—I dunno." John had almost said _should we ask Mycroft for help_ but then he'd realized how stupid that would have been. Sherlock definitely didn't need more incentive to be in a bad mood.

"I don't think we need to worry," Sherlock said quietly. "Obviously he doesn't want to kill us yet, or we'd be dead already."

"So what's all this about, then?" John chewed on his lip.

"Well—with Moriarty it's all about games. So as long as I play, and keep things interesting, he'll have no reason to end it."

"What exactly does 'playing' entail?"

"I don't know. Perhaps we should invite him over for tea and get out the old Cluedo board," Sherlock pulled a face.

John wanted to say something._ This is serious._ But at least flippancy that was an improvement from the utter blankness Sherlock had been displaying before. They both knew how dangerous Jim Moriarty was. There was no need to discuss it further.

"I already told you, Sherlock. If you ever pull that game out again, I'm going to burn it in self defense."

"Nonsense. We just need to rewrite the rules so that they're not utterly idiotic."

"Dear god. I have to get you out of this flat before you get any more ideas. So what do you say?" John smiled slightly. "Want to go down to the Yard and think up new ways to call Anderson an idiot? I bet it would cheer you up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Then he frowned. Then a wide grin slowly spread across his face.

"All right," he was suddenly standing. "Lets go."

"What? Now?" John was a bit surprised Sherlock had agreed with so little coercion.

"Yes. Come along. Bring lubricant."

"_Why?_"

"I'm sure that even you can deduce what I might possibly want lubricant for."

"Very funny… I'm not shagging you anywhere ridiculous, Sherlock. We're going to actually get caught if we're not careful." John grumbled. But he still stood. Sherlock already had his coat on and was knotting his scarf.

"Of course. Duly noted."

"Did you even hear what I just said?"

"No sex anywhere ridiculous. Hurry up. The air's stuffy in here."

John rolled his eyes, but he put on his coat and followed Sherlock down the stairs. As he walked out the front door, he unconsciously patted the back pocket of his jeans. There were a few packets of lube in there, as always.

Damn it.

Sherlock flagged down a cab and they clambered in. The taller man was still smiling smugly. John knew he should probably be worried, but he couldn't feel much but relief at the fact that Sherlock had snapped out of his odd little depressive state for the time being.

* * *

"Honestly, how do you people even manage to feed yourselves?" Sherlock was smiling smugly, bent over the crime scene photographs that were spread across Lestrade's desk.

It seemed that he'd been saving up about a week's worth of insults, and was lobbing them around indiscriminately. Even Greg, who Sherlock was usually a bit nicer to, had been caught in the crossfire.

"Look!" Sherlock was pointing at the lower left corner of the photograph.

"What? It's a rubbish bin," Greg let out a long sigh.

"I know that. But what's _inside _it?"

"Rubbish?"

"Yes. What else?"

"This would be a lot easier if you just told me what you were on about rather than asking a lot of condescending questions."

John leaned over to see what Sherlock was pointing to. It was indeed an overflowing rubbish bin. John couldn't see anything particularly important about it.

"The teddy bear," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John squinted. There was indeed what looked like the tattered remnants of a stuffed animal suck in among the crumpled pits of paper, old food, and other soggy waste.

"And… why is a teddy bear important?" Greg asked carefully, almost wincing.

"That's how he's smuggling the drugs into the country, Lestrade! It's textbook. Simple. Obvious. How has nobody else caught this?"

Greg looked at the photograph more closely. He frowned.

"Oh!" Sherlock's eyes widened suddenly. "He's killing off his dealers! He must be. I mean, look at him. _That_ man is not a drug mule. He's to unique with that nose and all those tattoos… he'd use ordinary people to smuggle the drugs in…" Sherlock began pacing. "But why is he killing off his dealers? Is he about to shut it down? That must mean we're close to finding something… but he doesn't care about the drugs in the first place… _what is he doing? _Is he just taunting me?"

Clearly, Sherlock was no longer speaking to anybody in the room. Greg was still staring at the photographs. Now that Sherlock had pointed out the teddy bear, John had spotted them in a few of the other photographs. Always stuffed in a corner, in a rubbish bin, or amidst soggy cardboard boxes. Hidden in plain sight.

"Perhaps—could the drug ring have been a cover for something else entirely?" Sherlock had slowly drifted into mumbling rather than shouting. "It would have to be something big, to create a distraction this elaborate…"

Sherlock's text tone went off. He nearly snarled as he pulled the phone out of his pocket. His eyes moved back and forth quickly, and a sour expression crossed his face. John's chest tightened slightly. It was probably Moriarty.

"Have you already let Anderson botch the autopsy on the newest corpse?" Sherlock looked up at Lestrade with narrowed eyes.

"Well… he didn't find anything out of the ordinary—"

"This is Moriarty we're dealing with. It wouldn't be ordinary. I want the body transferred to St. Bart's if you still have it. I need to run some tests on the blood. Otherwise, there's bound to be more of them soon enough. Don't let Anderson touch the next one. You call me as soon as you find it."

"What do you mean there's bound to be _more_?" Greg asked in vague exasperation. "The whole point of this is to stop people from being murdered!"

"Does it really matter if a few more drug dealers in the employ of a horrific criminal die?"

"Sherlock!" John said pointedly.

"For god's sake. I understand why you get upset when innocent people die—but these people were hardly innocent and it would really be a lot easier if I could test blood that hasn't been sitting around coagulating for multiple days—"

"It doesn't matter. For all you know these people have families. Maybe they just got caught up in something bad and couldn't find a way out."

John never liked being reminded how little Sherlock cared about the fact that every dead body was once a person, with a life, and loved ones. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and took a deep breath. Tried to remind himself Sherlock was under a lot of stress, and wasn't actually aware that he was saying terrible things.

"Sorry."

It was mumbled, but still there. Sherlock was looking at him out of the corner of his eye. His shoulders were hunched over slightly.

"Did you just apologize for being insensitive?" Lestrade's mouth was hanging open.

"What's it to you?" Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade raised his hands defensively. "Right then. Not my business. I'll um—shall I send the old body to Molly? I'm sure she can throw it in refrigeration for you."

"Yes. And call me if anything else happens."

"Will do."

With that, Sherlock turned on his heel and began to walk towards the door. He was texting furiously, fingers flying over the keyboard. John smiled at Lestrade and began to follow.

"Let's grab a pint one of these nights, yeah?" He called over his shoulder.

"Just text me," Lestrade nodded, before slumping down behind his desk and massaging his temples.

They walked through the sea of busy cubicles, catching the usual nasty looks from some people, and the glances of stunned admiration from others. But instead of heading towards the elevators, Sherlock took a sharp right turn and headed off in a seemingly uncharted direction.

"Sherlock?" John walked a little faster to try to catch up with him. "Where are you going?"

"Quiet. Just hurry up."

John frowned, but he followed. They were in a far corner of the building. By the vending machines and the water fountain. Was Sherlock planning to take the stairs?

Before John could really establish what was happening, Sherlock had a hold on his arm and was pulling him through the door into the men's toilet. There were three cubicles. Two small ones, and a larger handicapped one.

Sherlock was dragging them both towards the biggest one, when it all clicked in John's brain and he dug in his heels.

"_Sherlock_," he hissed.

"Come on," Sherlock's cheeks were slightly pink. He was already breathing heavily. He pulled John into his arms and began nuzzling and the skin on his neck, planting tiny kisses. "It'd be fun, wouldn't it?"

"I am _not_ going to get caught shagging you in a men's toilet. Did it occur to you that we're quite literally surrounded by a lot of people who would love to arrest us for public indecency?"

"That just makes it so much better."

John could feel Sherlock's erection pressing against him. God damn it. NO. This was a grand _fuck you_ to fate, and they were bound to get into all sorts of trouble if they went through with it.

"I'm not doing this."

"Hardly anybody ever comes down to this one," Sherlock said quietly in his ear. "They all use the one on the left side of the building because it's closer."

"Still no."

"If anyone comes in I'd hear them. We could just stop and wait for them to leave."

"Why do I doubt that?" John rolled his eyes.

"Are you saying no because you really don't want to, or you're afraid that we'll get caught?"

Sherlock's lips were hovering inches away from John's. The taller man was staring down with dilated pupils. If John kissed him, that would be it.

"I _promise_ we won't get caught, John," Sherlock murmured, "and even if we did it's not like Lestrade would actually arrest us… we'd just get a slap on the wrist…"

"And the entirety of Scotland Yard would know we're shagging."

"They already think we are. What's the difference if they know or not?"

Oh god. Fuck. Shit. Damn it. Sherlock's hands trailed down to squeeze John's arse and pull him in even closer.

"Do you think you could be _quiet_, John?" Sherlock's voice was low and gravely in John's ear. "Do you think you could contain all the noises you desperately want to make while I fuck your brains out?"

Now that just wasn't playing fair. When Sherlock started talking like that, it was nearly impossible to think. And John was fighting an uphill battle with his body as it was. His cock was already straining in his trousers, demanding to know why he and Sherlock weren't naked and sliding against each other.

Bugger.

"I swear to god, if we get thrown in jail over this—you're paying for my lawyer, and I'm going to refuse to shag you for at least a month."

Then he rocked up onto his tiptoes to close the distance between their mouths. Sherlock groaned and began to kiss him hungrily. Devour him. They were walking backwards towards the largest cubicle. Sherlock slammed John up against the tile wall, locking the door behind them.

Their tongues tangled together. Sherlock's fingers were already fumbling with the button and then the zip of John's trousers. The haze of lust was quickly washing in. Blanketing over most of the thoughts about exactly what a bad idea this was.

John's trousers dropped to the floor, as did Sherlock's knees. He stared up at John from his new position, and grinned wickedly before swallowing John's cock to the hilt.

"_Jesus_," John groaned. Grabbing Sherlock's hair, because there was nothing else to hold onto.

Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and bobbed languidly up and down John's length, pulling off almost all the way to massage the sensitive bundle of nerves under the glans, before allowing the head of John's cock to hit the back of his throat again. John bit down on his own fist to keep from moaning too loudly. Sherlock seemed to be giving the most sinful blowjob he possibly could. Did he want John to groan and whine until somebody came in to see what the fuck was going on?

The mad bastard would probably get off on it.

John's trousers were still pooled around his ankles. Sherlock was reaching into the back pocket to get out the packets of lube.

Shit. They were really doing to do this. A year ago, if anyone had told John Watson he'd be throat fucking the world's only Consulting Detective in the men's toilet at Scotland Yard—he probably would have laughed, or punched them in the jaw. Now it wasn't so funny. This was what his life had turned into. A whirlwind of increasingly psychotic sexual endeavors.

And god save him, he loved every minute of it.

A slick finger slid between John's arse cheeks. Sherlock continued to expertly suck on John's cock while his finger entered the good doctor, and began relentlessly rubbing against his prostate. John didn't even have to ask how he found it so quickly every fucking time. This was Sherlock Holmes. He was good at _everything._

The tickling pleasure was damn near overwhelming. John couldn't breathe. He was burning up. Squirming, and pressing his cheek into the cold tile of the wall.

Sherlock slid another finger in, and John was sure to have teeth mark-shaped bruises on his hand by the time this was all said and done with. He was still biting his fist, but it wasn't going to completely muffle any sounds he made. It was so much worse, knowing he couldn't make noise. Just like how you laugh harder when you know you're not supposed to be laughing in the first place.

And then Sherlock pulled off his cock. He stood and was grasping John's hips, turning him around. John braced his arms against the tile and bit his lip as he heard Sherlock's belt clattering and the sound of a zipper being pulled down.

He felt Sherlock's cock pressing against him. The detective mouthed at the side of John's neck as he slid inside him.

"You feel so fucking good, John," Sherlock whispered in his ear.

John's lip was going to be bleeding by the end of this, wasn't it?

Sherlock rocked into him slowly. The doctor let out a small whimper. He couldn't help it. Sherlock's cock was stretching him perfectly. He felt wonderfully full. There was the uncomfortable burn, as there always was at first. But these days it only made him think about he pleasant, warm ache that would follow.

"Now, now," Sherlock's voice barely ghosted past his ear. "You have to be quiet, remember? Unless, that is... you _want_ to get caught."

John shook his head. Sherlock began thrusting into him at a slow but measured pace. He was dragging against John's prostate with every motion, sending shocks of pleasure through his entire body. It was torture. Sweet, sweet, torture.

"Just think about it," the quiet stream of filthy words continued. "What if Lestrade walked through the door this very moment and heard you moaning for me? Does that thought turn you on? What if he _heard_ us and I kept right on fucking you? Making you squirm, and groan. What if we made him listen while you came shouting my name?"

John's cock was leaking. Damn it all to hell. Why were Sherlock's words setting his skin on fire? They really, _really_ shouldn't be. But he couldn't help it. The thought of Lestrade walking in and catching them was unreasonably appealing. Perhaps some twisted little part of him wanted Sherlock to claim him while people watched.

Sherlock's hands tightened on John's hips, as if he could hear what John was thinking, and he began to suck a large bruise on the place where his neck turned into his shoulder. It turned John's bones to jelly. He only stayed standing because his muscles were so tight—and he was pressed up against a wall.

"You're so sexy like this," Sherlock's voice was a low growl. "I can feel your whole body tensing, trying to contain all the lovely little noises you want to let out."

Dear god. John wanted to say something back, but didn't trust himself to open his mouth. He retaliated by bucking back against Sherlock. Increasing the pace. Sherlock bit down on his neck to stifle the groan.

John was certain their breathing would be clearly audible now. Not from outside the room, but if anyone walked in. They were both panting. Sherlock was pushing into him more roughly.

The heat was burning through John's entire body. One of Sherlock's hands snaked forward and grasped John's cock, stroking it in time with his motions. John made a small noise at the back of his throat.

"Hmm…" Sherlock grunted. "Perhaps it's not just Lestrade you want to hear us. How about the entire floor? Do you want them all to know what a wanton little slut you are? Do you want them to know how you'll spread your legs for me _anywhere_ and _any time_ I ask?"

The humiliation would have made John's cheeks go pink, if all his blood wasn't already diverted down to his throbbing cock. The tension was building rapidly. All Sherlock's taunting was simply adding fuel to the fire. He was in free fall. Everything blurry at the edges. Every thrust was sending him careening closer to that glorious finish line.

"Do you want them to hear how sometimes you beg me for it? You say—_please fuck me, Sir. _And you don't stop there. You get all breathy, and dizzy, and then you moan that you want my come inside you. Do you want it now, John? Shall I fill you up?"

"Yes," John squeaked. And really, he did. He loved it when Sherlock went suddenly stiff, and he could feel his cock get slightly harder, and pulse, and empty inside him.

"You're close aren't you?" Sherlock's words were getting a bit ragged. "I can feel your muscles fluttering around me. It's fucking delicious."

John was practically trembling. It was all too much. Constriction. Pressure building. It was hard to breathe. He was teetering so close to the edge. Every single nerve ending was buzzing in anticipation. Sherlock's cock drove into him over and over, hitting all the right places.

"Come for me."

John let out an admirably quiet whimper, and proceeded to splatter his come all over the tile wall. Sherlock wasn't far behind him. He grunted, and shuddered as John was still riding out the final pulsing waves of his own orgasm. Everything was dull, warm fuzzy.

It took a moment for the coldness of reality to set in once again. John was sticky, and decidedly debauched. Really, he should have felt ashamed. Right?

Except Sherlock was turning him back around and kissing him, and cradling John's chin in those long slim fingers. And it was hard to feel filthy and used when Sherlock was pulling John into his arms and hugging him tightly.

Eventually they had to break apart to get cleaned up. Well, cleaned up as best as they could. Even as John pulled up his trousers, he still felt Sherlock's come trickling out of him. Ah well.

They opened the door and looked in the mirror, and both had to choke back a fit of giggles. Sherlock's hair was a complete mess, sticking up at all sorts of strange angles, and John's neck was covered in bright red bite marks. The good doctor's lower lip was swollen, and they both looked incredibly guilty of the worst sort of carnal sins.

"We'd better get out of here before someone sees us," John snorted.

They started towards the door. As it swung open into the hallway, John nearly ran head-on into Lestrade.

"Oh, sorry, John I…" Lestrade trailed off. He was looking back and forth between John and Sherlock. His eyes widened slightly.

"Good afternoon, Lestrade," Sherlock said smoothly. His hand was on the small of John's back. Pushing him forward. John moved, walking towards the exit. Lestrade simply stared after them. Speechless.

They made it to the elevator and halfway to the first floor before Sherlock was grinning smugly again.

"Oh stop it," John grumbled.

"It was almost as good as shagging you across his desk. Which I'd still like to try at some point."

"Do you have an arrest fetish or something?"

"Perhaps. I think it's a matter that needs further investigation."

"You're hopeless."

"And you're terribly indulgent."

Right before the elevator doors opened, Sherlock leaned over and planted a small, rather chaste kiss on John's lips.

John's cheeks were pink again as they walked out of the building.

* * *

_Perhaps you've noticed, I've started into some of the smut bunnies! This was a combination of **quill. is**** .mightier's **request __for sex in the men's toilet at Scotland Yard, and a bastardization of __**bloodsoakedleather**__'s idea about Sherlock whispering lewd and perverted things into John's ear, while John has to act normal—or in this case keep quiet._

_This chapter is once again un-betaded, and edited while half delirious. Mistakes will be corrected as I see them._

_There were so many lovely reviews last week! I was doing an awful lot of singing :) _

_I'm going to learn to do proper jigs. Because my celebrations over reviews, follows and favorites are turning into full-blown song and dance numbers._

_Now. It is final's week for me at University. So here's what I'm going to say. My __**plan**__ is to have a chapter posted next Wednesday as usual. But if somehow that doesn't happen, I sincerely hope you'll forgive me. And I'll post something extra long and extra smutty to make up for it if I end up not making the Wednesday mark._

_I also have vague plans about posting Chapter Two of my other story, "Almost Like A Virgin," on Saturday. But I cannot guarantee that's going to happen either._

_Regardless of what does or does not get posted, I solemnly swear that have no intentions to leave this story an unfinished WIP. So do not fret. More will come. Hopefully on time. But again, pardon me if I slip up this week. I just have so many other things to do, I'm feeling exceedingly overwhelmed._


	13. Haze

_Fair warning: Mycroft and Moriarty are meddling something awful. So that means Moriarty-related insanity. Also, orgasm control and rope bondage! This is un-betaed and edited at 4:00 in the morning. I apologize for the doubtlessly numerous mistakes. I'll fix them later today. But at least it's up!_

* * *

Sherlock had gone down the street to get a pack of cigarettes. It wasn't a very far walk. Less than three blocks. But he was only halfway to the off-license before an unmarked black car pulled up beside him.

The window rolled down. The car crawled along as Sherlock continued to walk.

"I don't have time to play games today, Sherlock. Make this easy on yourself and just get in the car," Mycroft smiled smarmily.

"No thank you." Sherlock continued walking, at a much more brisk pace.

"You're really going to make me threaten you? When are we going to get past this point?"

"Probably never. Unless you're here to tell me that you've decided to take a job running France instead of England—I'm not interested."

"I know what you did," it came out smoothly. Like Sherlock should know what Mycroft was talking about. He stopped to fix his brother with a cold glare.

"What? Lestrade told you he caught me and John walking out of the men's toilet at Scotland Yard? _Really_ Mycroft. I know you've shagged him inside the Tower of London. You're hardly in a place to judge."

Mycroft's eyes widened a bit at that. But he wasn't rolling up his window and going away. Instead, he was opening the door, presumably so Sherlock could get in the car.

"I have some CCTV stills you'd be interested in seeing." Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly. Oh. That meant something dangerous.

Sherlock sighed, and slid into the car. Mycroft was pushing a manila folder into Sherlock's hands.

He let the folder fall open. It was filled with a few glossy photographs. They were a bit grainy, as they'd obviously been taken from a video—like Mycroft had said. The pictures were of a dance club—a mass of people. Or at least, the first one was.

The next in the series was highly zoomed in. It was of _Sherlock_. He had a blank expression on his face. Jim Morairty's arms were looped around his neck.

His mouth went dry.

In the next photograph, Sherlock was turned around—still clearly identifiable by his mop of curls, and his face turned slightly to the side. Jim was pressing a kiss against his neck.

Sherlock's heart was beating in his throat.

The final picture was of Sherlock and Jim snogging. Heatedly. Jim's fingers were tangled in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock's arms were wrapped around his waist.

Oh dear.

Sherlock closed the folder carefully and looked up at Mycroft. His brother was not smiling. He had a perfectly neutral expression hitched on his face. This was not a taunt. They'd already progressed into negotiations.

"So you have your own cameras installed in _Tease_?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That seems highly unlikely."

"Right you are. Your dear Mr. Moriarty sent me these photographs, with a note saying I could also have access to the footage if I'd like to… though I'm not completely certain why he sent them, I think he figured I might do him a service by showing them to John and making him leave you." Mycroft was examining his fingernails.

"Which puts you in a precarious position, because if you're the one to show him, he'll be angry at you. And then you'll only be forcing a wedge between us, without getting to have him for yourself."

"Precisely."

"So we're at a stalemate?" Sherlock was covered in cold sweat. He knew Mycroft had noticed.

"Oh, I don't know. John doesn't really want me anyway. I still _might_ show him the photographs."

"What do you want?" Sherlock crossed his arms.

Of course, this was a power play. It was never anything else. Mycroft had fixed him with a cold, calculating gaze. Sherlock had to be careful now. This could go very badly if he made any moves without thinking them through.

"There are a lot of things I want, Sherlock," Mycroft said crisply. "Mummy's birthday is coming up. It would be ever so nice if you came with me to visit her in the country."

Sherlock cringed internally. It wasn't that he didn't like Mummy. On one level or another, he certainly did. But he hated going back to the Estate, just like he hated all the relatives that constantly circled like vultures—waiting for Mummy to die so they could have their inheritance.

"Fine," Sherlock let out a long breath.

"Now that wasn't so hard was it?" The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched upwards slightly. "I have a file full of little problems I need solved. All fairly simple—they just require too much legwork for my liking. I trust you'll find the time to have a look at them for me."

"Anything else?" Sherlock's voice dripped acid. But he had to maintain some semblance of politeness.

"I think you should tell John about what happened. It's not a demand, just a piece of advice."

"And why would I want to do _that_?" Sherlock spat.

"Because even I have a difficult time predicting Mr. Moriarty's movements, but it's very likely he'll find another way to get John to see the photographs—if I don't show them to him."

Sherlock chewed that over for a moment. He never liked admitting that Mycroft was right about anything. But his silence probably said enough.

"I'm not sure how you backed yourself into such a bizarre corner, but do you have a contingency plan?" Mycroft asked dryly.

"What sort of escape is there from an insane criminal mastermind when he's stalking you?"

"So he's threatened John." Mycroft sighed. "Really, you should have known better than to play games with mad men in the first place, Sherlock."

"I didn't have a choice."

"Come now. Don't tell me you're not having fun."

Sherlock swallowed hard.

He'd thought he'd enjoy it. Being pursued by an intellectual rival. Playing games with real stakes. Actually being _afraid._

And if he was being honest with himself, part of him did like it. Or was at least vaguely aroused by Moriarty's more violent text messages. Like:

**What are your feelings about vivisections? I think it'd be fun to open your skull and pick apart that lovely brain of yours while you were still conscious - JM **

He knew it was wrong that a sharp pang of heat shot through his body when he'd read that particular text. Objectively, there was nothing sexual about it. The mental image was gory and perversely psychotic.

Really, he knew what it was. Moriarty excited him, because nobody else would ever say things like that. It was the most unstable sort of dirty talk. And it kind of worked for him.

Other people might let Sherlock tie them down and hit them, and perhaps even cut them with a knife a little bit. But they would only dive down into the dark so far. If he started talking about what their body would look like on the slab—they'd safeword and leave promptly.

And Sherlock was glad for it. Because even though dead bodies were often interesting puzzles, he didn't actually want to kill anyone. That was the difference between Sherlock and Moriarty, really. They found the same sort of senseless violence enticing, but Sherlock's interest was more theoretical, while Moriarty's was practical.

He was also equal parts disgusted and horrified by what it felt like to have Moriarty's cock pressed against him. He did not want to be somebody's fuck toy, and even if Jim had him up on a pedestal—that's what he'd end up being.

Not to mention the fact that Jim would definitely kill him the second he got bored.

He realized he'd been silent for far too long, and Mycroft's perfectly calm expression had shifted to one of concern. It was a subtle change. In the tilt of his head, and the slight narrowing of his eyes.

It was the same way he'd looked at Sherlock the first time he overdosed on cocaine.

"You've already gotten in too deep." It was a statement not a question. Mycroft crossed his legs and, shifting on the seat slightly. "You realize you're going to have to chose at some point, Sherlock. You can't have Moriarty and John. John would leave you, and Moriarty might kill him if he doesn't."

"I know," Sherlock said quietly. "I… well, I don't want John to leave."

"And now you're puzzling over how to reject a mad man without getting seriously injured?"

Sherlock dropped his eyes to look at the floor. "You see the problem. I could give him what he wants but—" Sherlock cut himself off. He didn't want to talk about this. Especially not with his _brother._ He didn't want to put into words how Moriarty would break him into tiny pieces, and he'd ensure that Sherlock enjoyed it.

He couldn't articulate the messy combination of _want _and _don't want_. The mingling of _terrified_ and _intrigued._

Mostly, though, he didn't want to see the crumpled look on John's face if he ever caught a glimpse of the photographs still sitting in his lap. If possible, he never wanted to make John cry ever again. It made him feel so sickeningly guilty, he couldn't stand it

"Really, I should let you clean this mess up, because you're the one that caused it," Mycroft sighed. "But is there anything I can do?"

"Not at the moment. Though I do believe we're getting closer to finding Moriarty's base of operations. He's been killing off his lower-level employees left and right. Perhaps I'll be able to scare him out of the country for a little while… buy myself some time."

"Well, try not to make any rash decisions," Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I rarely do. Are you really going to make me go to the Estate for Mummy's birthday?"

"Of course. It's been such a long time since I got a nice piece of leverage over you," Mycroft carefully grasped the manila folder, and slid it back into his briefcase. "Next Saturday."

"I know what day her birthday is."

"Shall I send a car?"

"I think I'd rather take a cab and pay for it on one of your credit cards."

"If you must. Now like I said, I'm busy. Get out and go buy your cigarettes," Mycroft smirked knowingly.

Sherlock muttered something threatening and unintelligible. But he got out of the car and started walking once again. He tried to hurry.

He'd left John tied to a chair, and he was probably going to be a bit cross about the extra wait time.

* * *

John let out a slow sigh. The flat was achingly quiet. His shoulder was throbbing slightly—the dull sort of pain he knew would only get worse with time. But there wasn't much he could do about it. He was a bit tied up. Literally.

Really, he didn't even know how he got himself into these situations. It seemed that the mere fact of his existence was enough to cause all sorts of interesting things to happen.

He'd been setting at the kitchen table, having a cup of tea and typing out some random things for the blog, when Sherlock came up behind him and kissed the top of his head. John had looked up and smiled.

Sherlock was holding a curled length of red rope. John's cock twitched with interest as Sherlock caught hold of the doctor's left wrist and began wrapping the rope around it.

But he had to at least put up a token protest.

"Sherlock," he'd rolled his eyes, "I'm working."

"And I'm bored." Sherlock was twisting quick, intricate knots around John's wrist.

The doctor tired to pull away, but Sherlock was already tugging his wrist behind the chair and fastening it to one of the poles on the backrest.

John tugged at the restraint. It was quite secure. The rope was soft—probably silk—but it threatened to raise a nasty rash if John struggled too much.

Sherlock leaned down and planted a kiss on John's cheek.

"May I have your other wrist?" He'd hummed softly into John's ear.

"If I say 'no' will it make a difference?" John could feel the flush rising in his neck.

"Of course. But that's because you're not going to say 'no.'"

"Fuck off," John snorted.

But he offered his right hand and Sherlock repeated the series of artful knots before securing John's other arm behind him.

Then Sherlock disappeared for a moment, and came back with more rope. He crouched down and began to tie John's ankles and knees to the chair legs.

"If you're planning to fuck me, this seems like a rather impractical position to tie me up in," John commented flatly. Mostly because he wanted to goad Sherlock into explaining what was going on.

But Sherlock just laughed and tugged at the ropes to make sure they were secure.

John was half hard. Because really, he did quite like the sense of calm that seemed to wash over him when he was tied down and incapable of resistance. It would probably be different if it weren't in his own flat. But in a relatively safe place, he could relax. And when he relaxed in his bonds, he was the complete focus of Sherlock's attention, and the feeling was intensely addictive.

Sherlock rose to his feet and leaned back against the tabletop, sitting on it halfway, so his long legs were sprawled on either side of John's chair. He was grinning wickedly.

His large hands cupped the sides of John's face, and they both leaned forward into a rather heated kiss. Their tongues tangles together and slid against each other and the good doctor's cock stood at full attention.

Sherlock moved forward and reached down to unbutton the smaller man's trousers and pull down the zip. John's body was practically vibrating with anticipation. Sherlock pushed John's pants down just enough to expose his cock. Then the detective's long fingers wrapped around John's throbbing erection loosely and began to stroke in a way that was both arousing and extremely frustrating.

John groaned his protest into Sherlock's mouth, but they simply continued to kiss, and Sherlock kept right on in his annoyingly slow caresses.

Then, Sherlock pulled back abruptly, and raked is eyes down John's restrained body. By a happy accident, John was just wearing a button-down, rather than a bulky jumper. He could feel Sherlock's gaze, almost burning through him.

"Do you know what I'm going to do, John?" Sherlock asked in that oddly innocent voice that John had stropped trusting a long time ago.

"What?" the doctor tensed slightly.

"I'm going to walk to the off-license, buy a pack of cigarettes, and I'm going to smoke them in front of you. You won't be able to do a thing to stop me."

"Sherlock!" John said sharply. "You're doing so well. Don't make me watch you have a relapse."

"Oh, come now. We both know that you smell the smoke in the flat if you go out and come back earlier than expected."

Well, he did have John there. It was just one of those things they didn't talk about.

"So, you've tied me up just to smoke in front of me?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Well that and I'd rather like to fuck your mouth."

And with that, Sherlock had stood, and walked out the door. John couldn't see the clock, and his laptop had gone into sleep mode. But it felt like it had been a lot longer than the fifteen minutes it would usually take to walk to the off-license and back.

John had been painfully hard at the start of his wait, but his cock gradually drooped to half-mast as the prospect of further stimulation seemed less likely. He was just beginning to actually worry about where Sherlock had gotten off to when the door slammed open downstairs.

It sounded like Sherlock, as Mrs. Hudson did not slam doors. But John still had a brief moment of panic at the thought of her stopping by for a cup of tea and seeing him like this. He would never be able to look her in the eye again.

But then whoever was coming up was _bounding_ up the stairs, and Mrs. Hudson did not do that either.

A few moments later, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a pack of Pall Mall's and a lighter.

He promptly returned to his previous seat on the table, half straddling John's chair. He began tapping the pack on the tabletop, to tighten any of the loose tobacco. Then he pealed off the cellophane packaging and selected his first cigarette with long, pale fingers.

"You were gone for a while," John prompted. Mostly because it was true, but also partly because he wanted to know whether it had really been the day and a half it had felt like, or just an extra few minutes.

The taller man flicked his lighter and sparked the end of the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and his eyes closed halfway. It reminded John of the expression a post-coital Sherlock often wore.

Smoking was a dirty habit, and John had never been particularly interested in it. However, watching Sherlock take a long, smooth drag and exhale a smoke ring was vaguely arousing.

"I ended up having to walk father down the street. The man at the closer off-liscence won't sell to me since I informed him his wife was cheating on him," Sherlock smirked slightly.

"Of course you bloody did."

The taller man exhaled another little cloud and reached down for John's cock once again. It responded to his touch quite rapidly—really it had never softened all the way. By the time Sherlock was done with his first cigarette, they were in the middle of a proper hand job.

Sherlock tangled his fingers in John's hair and pulled him into a kiss. The taste of smoke reminded John of the dimly lit pubs and cheap whiskey of his University years. He found that he didn't really mind it at all.

* * *

Sherlock lit another cigarette. The nicotine was buzzing through his veins pleasantly. John was flushed with arousal. His blue irises were barely visible around the dark mass of his pupils.

Sherlock continued to stroke John's cock, held the cigarette firmly between his lips, and unbuttoned his own trousers one handed. He casually pulled down the zip before taking the cigarette between his index and middle finger and exhaling.

He bit down gently on the filter, and switched to stroking John's cock with is left hand so he could unbutton to good doctor's shirt with his right.

John was panting. Moaning softly at the touch. Sherlock finished with John's shirt so it hung open, exposing his lightly muscled chest. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of burning John with the cigarette. But it seemed like something that might make him more angry than aroused. So Sherlock took several more large drags, until the cigarette was just a smoldering stub, then he dropped it into the half-empty teacup sitting next to him. It fizzled pleasantly as it extinguished.

Then he placed both of his hand on John's shoulders and stood. His cock bobbed right at the level of the smaller man's mouth.

The good doctor parted his lips without being asked to and Sherlock slid between them.

Sherlock let out a small groan when the tip of his cock hit the back of John's throat. John tensed slightly, but he didn't make any gagging noises. Sherlock pulled back so only the tip of his cock was in John's mouth. The doctor swirled his tongue, focusing on the sensitive nerve bundle right under the crown of Sherlock cock.

"Can you snap your fingers with your hands tied like that?" Sherlock asked as he grabbed a handful of blond hair and tugged—causing John to moan around him.

John snapped.

"Good. Let me know if it's too much."

And with that, Sherlock pushed back into John's mouth as far as he could and set a steady rhythm.

The slick heat was wonderfully intoxicating. Especially when John was trying so hard to be a good boy and not gag. Sherlock kept a firm hold of John's hair, tugging every so often if the good doctor started to lose focus. With his other hand, Sherlock gently traced his fingers up and down the back of John's neck.

"Your mouth is fantastic," Sherlock murmured, "so warm and sloppy."

He could feel the drool running down John's chin and it just made him harder.

"You like it when I use you like this, don't you? It makes you feel dirty, and your cock throbs because you want more."

Sherlock pulled all the way out of John's mouth to let him take a few gasps of air.

"Are you enjoying this?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Convince me. Beg me to put my fat prick back in your mouth."

John was breathing like he'd just run a marathon, but he looked up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes.

"Please, sir," John said timidly, "let me suck you."

Sherlock's blood felt like it was on fire. He'd heard those words before. But never quite like _that_. Like John really did want it. Like he wanted nothing more than to be skull fucked so fast it hurt to swallow for days. But it was also something else. The way John was looking at him—the same way he looked when Sherlock made a particularly clever deduction. How he looked when he said Sherlock was "brilliant" or "fantastic."

Perhaps it was that John cared for him in a way that he'd never previously experienced. The perfect combination of bravery (stupidity) and a savior complex—probably the only individual on the planet masochistic enough to let himself fall in love with somebody like Sherlock.

It made the detective's heart thump irregularly.

He pushed back into John's mouth, but he was a little gentler this time. John hollowed his cheeks and pressed his tongue up against the shaft of Sherlock's cock to create a wonderful sort of friction for him to thrust against.

Sherlock wasn't certain how long he's be able to last like this. There was a twisting heat burning in his core. The tension was building. Should he come down John's throat? Then he'd certainly be better focused for the rest of this. But it might not be as much fun as drawing things out.

He pulled back again. John practically whimpered at the loss. But then Sherlock sat down on John's thighs, straddling him so that their cocks were nearly touching.

"If you come without permission, I'll leave you tied here for the rest of the day. It won't be fun. I'll ignore you, except perhaps to feed you dinner when I feel that you're adequately sorry. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," John nodded meekly.

"Tell me when you're close."

Sherlock shifted forward enough to grasp both of their cocks in one hand, and then he began to stroke.

Jon's face was twisted up with the most wonderful sort of pleasure. It was delicious to watch.

* * *

"Oh god," John groaned.

Every inch of his skin was buzzing with sickly-hot arousal. He pulled against the restraints just to feel them. Sherlock's weight on his lap, the wonderful tingling pleasure of his hand sliding across both of their cocks.

Perhaps it was the position that was doing it.

Sherlock was sitting on him. If he slid forward just a little bit more, he'd be on top of John's cock. And even though he knew it would never happen—just the thought of it was enough to make his brain spin and his breath get unsteadily.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, right next to his ear.

"You, Sir," John responded dutifully.

He almost felt guilty. Picturing Sherlock riding him. Dark curls sticking to his forehead. Mouth open in a gasp. Eyes shut. Sinking down over and over onto John's cock… _fuck_. What would it feel like? To slide into Sherlock's tight, warm body. It would be like heaven.

"You're thinking about something quite particular," Sherlock began to move his hand a little faster. "Describe it to me."

Oh god. He couldn't. John bit his lip. Sherlock was definitely going to hit him if he heard about what John was thinking.

But really… he'd probably hit him anyway.

"John," Sherlock barked a bit more harshly, "what are you thinking about?"

"Fucking you, sir," John whispered, "I'm picturing you riding my cock."

Sherlock didn't go still or slap John across the face, like John had thought he might. Instead he placed a hand on John's shoulder, and began to bob up and down slightly, rocking against John's aching prick as he continued to stroke them.

"Really?" He chuckled darkly. "So you'd like for me to sink down onto your cock and use your for my own pleasure?"

"Oh fuck, yes," John panted.

"You'd like to be tied down, just like this, while I played with you—tortured you and teased you for an hour before I let you inside me? I'd make you lick my entrance open and slick before I sank down onto you and fucked myself to orgasm."

"Close," John barely choked out. He could feel the heat in his belly, threatening to boil over.

Sherlock stopped moving immediately and John let out a small whine.

"Really, John," Sherlock nipped at John's neck. "You're a bit too predictable. I bet I could just talk you to orgasm. I bet I could just _describe_ what it would feel like to have your cock inside me, and you'd come."

Under normal circumstances, that would be ridiculous. But John felt so hazy, and keyed up—that he was actually wondering if Sherlock might be able to do that. He was right on the _edge_. His cock was throbbing, still pressed flush against the warm, sticky skin of Sherlock's hand and prick.

Sherlock stayed there, perfectly still, until John could breathe again. Then he began to move. This time raising himself off John's lap and settling back down in a far more pronounced fashion. Helping John's little fantasy along. He was smirking.

"I bet you're wondering what sort of noises I'd make." Sherlock leaned in to lick a kiss out of John's mouth.

John's cock was leaking a frankly impressive amount of pre-come. Their flesh was sliding together, making slick, sloppy sounds.

"Would you like a demonstration?" Sherlock purred.

"Please, sir."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and he let out a tiny, keening whine. It wasn't an over-acted moan. It was quiet. Refined. Utterly _Sherlock_ and completely entrancing.

He did it again.

_"John_," he groaned.

Oh Jesus-fuck.

John couldn't even get the words out. But somehow Sherlock felt it, and he stopped moving the split-second before John was about to pass the point of no return. The good doctor shuddered involuntarily. It was painful how badly he needed to come.

"Such a naughty boy," Sherlock chuckled, "you didn't even warn me this time. Good thing for you that I stopped."

And he sat back, waiting.

John's breath was ragged. Every inch of him felt oversensitive. Almost broken. He ached in a way that he hadn't even known was possible. Sherlock was staring fixedly down at John's cock. John dropped his eyes as well to watch a large dollop of liquid pool at the tip of his cock and slowly run down it.

When Sherlock started moving again, John wasn't really ready. He was still dizzyingly close to the edge. But he tried to hold on. But then Sherlock opened his mouth and made that _noise_ again.

"Oh," the taller man's breath hitched, "it feels so good, John—oh fuck, right _there_. Ugh. You're so big. It's almost too much."

And that was definitely dialogue out of a bad porn video. But at that moment John really didn't give a fuck. Every word was searing hot. Pushing him closer and closer.

"Please, Sir," he barely managed to get it out, "please let me come."

Sherlock grinned, and pressed a sloppy kiss against him. Then it was barely a whisper past his ear.

"Come, right now."

John's body stiffened right on cue, and he was pulsing, covering them both in his ejaculate and the wave of white-hot pleasure singed through him.

Sherlock let out a small grunt. And then they both slumped against each other. Or rather, Sherlock slumped into John, and John slumped against the chair, and for a few minutes everything was wonderfully silent and lazy.

"Don't go getting any ideas." Sherlock a let out a small snort, and pulled back, raising his eyebrows at John.

"Wouldn't dream of it," John sighed. Tired, and sated.

Something odd flashed across Sherlock's face. There one moment, gone the next. John would have thought about it—tried to puzzle out exactly what it was—but then Sherlock was kissing him again, so he just let it slide away into the surrounding haze.

* * *

_I did It guys! I posted this and the second chapter of "Almost Like a Virgin" during finals week, and so far I haven't failed anything. All the internets to me? All the internets to me._

_Summer is officially here come Friday. You know what that means. Time for ridiculous amounts of smut! I've started a poll on my profile page if you lovely people are interested in having a say on what I start after "Almost Like a Virgin" is finished._

_Reviews, follows and favorites are smothered with cuddles and kisses. Seriously. I squeal like a small child every time I get an alert that somebody's left me something nice._

_As always, tune in next Wednesday for further depravity. I'm almost certain somebody's going to be giving somebody else head in the middle of an important science experiment :X_

_xoxo_


	14. Rock-a-bye

_Fair warning: this chapter really got away from me. I had no intention of making it so long. Consider it a HOORAY FOR SUMMER writing splurge. But anyway, I will warn you for Moriarty-related insanity. And there's some crime scene gore. I tried not to get too graphic about it, but it's there. If you're squeamish (which if you are, lord knows how you've made it this far, but kudos for sticking with me) just skip the third part and I'll explain in the end notes what the general idea of it was. The fourth part should be fine, just maybe a bit squicky because of our dear Jimmy and his wonderful madness. _

* * *

"Mycroft is blackmailing me into visiting our mother this weekend," Sherlock said coolly in between lashes of the riding crop.

John's wrists were handcuffed in front of him, and his skin was singing with explosions of heat and pain. He could feel each searing red mark across his back. It took a few moments before he registered that Sherlock had gone ahead and started a normal conversation in the midst of all the, "That's right you filthy slut! Moan for me!" that usually went along with a whipping.

"Um, I'm sorry?" John said carefully.

"Would you like to come along? I've been thinking about shagging you on Mycroft's bed and it has aroused me in an almost unreasonable manner."

John heard the leather whistle through the air before it made contact with his back. He twitched and let out a small grunt, even though he was trying to hold still.

"You want me to meet your mum?" John grinned cheekily once he regained his composure. He was blindfolded, so he couldn't see Sherlock's reaction. But there was a long pause, where Sherlock did nothing but trace the leather tip of the crop across John's over-stimulated and raw skin.

"Well yes, I suppose that would be a side-effect of you coming to her birthday party. But I doubt she'll really register it. She has a rather advanced case of Alzheimer's."

Sherlock said it so flatly. Like they were talking about the weather. John was about to say something, perhaps give his condolences—dementia was always awful to deal with, even if you were a self-proclaimed sociopath. But then the whip painted three new lines of fire across John's already tender flesh, and the thought escaped him before he could give it voice.

It was on the tip of John's tongue—_yellow. Too much. We've been doing this for quite a while now_. But then he heard the riding crop clatter to the floor. Sherlock was tracing his fingers lightly over the muscled expanse of John's back, and it made him shiver.

"So you'll come with me?" It was a breath past John's ear.

"Yeah, of course."

"Good boy."

It was almost jarring how easily Sherlock slipped back and forth from dirty talk to serious questions. But then John could feel Sherlock's fingers wrap around his prick and he really didn't give a fuck about anything. Sherlock stroked him slowly. Just enough to take the edge off the insistent throb of pain that was ricocheting through John's battered nerve endings.

There was a wet little kiss on the side of John's neck, and then Sherlock began to suck a bruise. John didn't know why he was being marked and battered so thoroughly today. It seemed that Sherlock had just woken up in the mood. It wasn't even past noon yet and here they were. Already drowning in a sea of volatile sexuality.

Actually, it had been like this for most of the week. Sherlock had a rampant sex drive anyway, but this was different. Every spare moment, he seemed to be dragging John towards the bed. Not always to fuck him. Sometimes just to lie on top of him and fall asleep, making it impossible for either of them to go anywhere.

If it were anyone else, John would have called it affection—the desire to be in constant physical contact. But with Sherlock, it was hard to really be sure. For all he knew, this was a new form of manipulation and he just hadn't noticed whatever it was Sherlock wanted to distract him from.

Sherlock tugged at the knot on the blindfold and it fell away. John looked over his shoulder reflexively. His back looked inflamed, and a few of the marks were starting to pucker—swelling up from the normal level of his skin. But he wasn't bleeding.

The taller man was still fully clothed, kneeling on the ground next to him, but his cheeks were flushed and there was a rather apparent erection straining against his trousers.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are like this?" He murmured softly, running his fingers gently through John's hair before grabbing a handful and tugging. He pulled John into a savage kiss, and of course, the good doctor happily obliged.

That was the best part of all this. Where Sherlock caused pain, he also gave pleasure. And now that the crop had been tossed aside, he was holding John so gently—like he was something fragile and precious.

There was a metal box sitting on the coffee table. Sherlock's toy box. It hadn't been there when the detective blindfolded John and shoved him onto his knees. But Sherlock had made him wait for a little while. There had been clattering noises. The cause and effect slotted together easily in John's brain.

"I want you to pick," Sherlock nodded towards the box.

"Hmm?" John blinked. Still a bit out of touch with his body.

"Choose a toy. Go on."

John's hands were still cuffed in front of him. Sherlock hadn't given him permission to stand up. So he shuffled over to the coffee table on his knees and had a good look at the contents of the box.

He'd never gotten up-close and personal with all the different items in it. Sherlock had used a handful of different things on him. A few dildos, and vibrators—but there was so much more. Some of the items looked a bit too much like medieval torture devices for John to be entirely comfortable. There was something that looked suspiciously like a pizza cutter with dull spikes sticking out of it. Then there were cock rings. More varieties of handcuffs than really seemed necessary. A ball gag. A pair of leather gloves that went up to the elbows, and had hooks so they could be fastened together. Then of course, also the wide variety of dildos and vibrators.

John decided the best course of action was to select the least-intimidating thing in the box. He was already a bit on edge. He didn't think he could handle a whole lot of escalation. So he reached down with both hands and wrapped his fingers around a slender vibrator with a flared base—one Sherlock had used on him before. He remembered it being quite nice.

He shuffled back over to Sherlock, still on his knees, holding out his selection. Sherlock smiled and took it. He unlocked the handcuffs around John's wrists, and then reached back into his coat pocket for a tube of lubricant.

"You are not allowed to touch yourself," the taller man commented offhandedly.

It seemed like a bit of an odd instruction, as a vibrator was about to go up John's arse, but he shrugged it off.

Sherlock started to undress. He removed his blazer in slow, steady motions. Giving John a bit of a show. Every button on his shirt got its own pause, its own beat in the rhythm of the dance. John sat back on his heels, just watching. Hard cock jutting out into the cool air.

It wasn't often that he got to watch Sherlock strip like this. Usually the clothes were ripped off in the heat of the moment, or even got left on because Sherlock seemed to have a thing for clothing disparity. But Sherlock stood, unzipped his trousers, then pulled them down slowly and deliberately. He was smirking, and he toed out of his shoes, and slipped off his pants, standing before John completely naked.

Then Sherlock lay down, with his back on the floor. Feet on the ground, knees up—perpendicular to where John sat so that the long stretch of his torso was on clear display. He turned his head to look at John as he squeezed lubricant into his hand and slid his fingers down between his arse cheeks. The doctor's mouth fell open slightly.

The taller man let out a small breathy sound as he slid a finger inside himself. John moved closer. So that he was kneeling right next to the other man. Almost close enough to touch.

"You just get to watch," Sherlock said coolly.

John almost groaned, but he nodded.

God. This new form of torture Sherlock had stumbled across was just awful. Awful and incredibly appealing. John was nearly drooling as he watched Sherlock start to finger himself.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd had anything up his arse. It had been years, certainly. It might not have even happened since University. He didn't really masturbate and it wasn't like he let anyone else touch him there.

It was only one finger and it burned slightly. But John's unabashed stare was rather distracting. The good doctor's eyes dark and wide with lust. It was like John wanted to _eat_ him.

He pushed another finger inside his hole and the stretch was verging on uncomfortable. The detective bit down on his lower lip and squirmed slightly—enjoying the way it made John's breath catch in his throat.

"You'd like to do this to me, wouldn't you?" Sherlock said softly, pushing his fingers in further. It was easy to find the right spot on John. He'd had a lot of practice. But finding it himself was a proving to be a bit more challenging. "You'd enjoy stretching me open and preparing me almost as much as you'd enjoy actually fucking me."

Sherlock's entire body jerked as his fingers brushed across his prostate. A strange pleasure pulsed through him.

_Oh_.

Intellectually, he knew about this part. He knew it was why people would beg for his cock and his fingers inside them. But he'd almost forgotten how it actually felt.

He pushed his fingers against the same little knot of nerve endings and he let out a small moan. John's pupils dilated even further. He could see every muscle in the good doctor's body tense.

Sherlock picked up a slow, natural rhythm. Brushing slowly against his prostate over and over again. Some of the noises he made were entirely for show, but some of them weren't. They caught him off guard. Like they simply jumped out of his mouth without any warning.

John's was kneeling close enough that his cock was hovering over Sherlock's abdomen. The detective felt a small drop of John's pre-come hit his skin. And somehow it was only more arousing.

It became difficult to focus. All Sherlock could really think about was that he needed more. More contact. More sensation. But really—this was for John. He was taunting the poor man quite terribly. But then… why did _he_ feel so ragged?

He carefully slid his fingers out and replaced them with the tip of the slender vibrator. It wasn't a lot wider than his two knuckles had been. It slid in without much resistance. Sherlock maintained a sizzling eye contact with the doctor in the few moments before he turned the toy on.

But then when the first shocks of vibration pressed against his prostate, he had to shut his eyes tight and groan. He didn't know what he was doing. His mind short-circuited for a moment. Because his hand was reaching out, grabbing a hold on John's thigh—and he was _writhing_, pushing back on the vibrator, driving it further into himself. Chasing the tingling pleasure. Finding it more and more challenging to breathe properly.

"Jesus," John whispered.

The part of Sherlock's mind that was still detached from the situation wondered what he must look like. Sprawled across their living room floor. Making decadent little noises, pleasuring himself on a toy. Quite sluttish, really.

But it wasn't enough.

This was always the problem with touching himself. Sherlock could anticipate his own movements. It was never a surprise. Not like someone else bucking back against him. Not like the unpredictability of internal muscle contractions.

"John," Sherlock didn't even bother to try controlling the tremble in his voice, "touch me."

The rough brush of John's fingertips against his skin sent him reeling. John traced slow, careful patterns across Sherlock's chest—leaving trails of heat everywhere he made contact. John was _not_ supposed to be teasing him.

Sherlock duck his nails into John's thigh, eliciting a small yelp.

"My cock, John. Touch it. Now."

John let out a long breath, as if trying to steady himself, before trailing his fingers downwards to wrap around Sherlock's aching prick.

Oh _yes_.

That was the ticket. He was nearly overwhelmed for a moment. Drowning in chaotic sensation.

But then he realized he'd let go of the vibrator—and somebody was still moving it in and out of him. John was holding onto the end of it, pressing it into Sherlock's body, and dragging it back out in small, barely noticeable motions.

_Fuck_.

Sherlock was too close to the edge. He couldn't gather himself together enough to voice any sort of resistance. He couldn't even rally enough mental energy to focus on the fact that John was fucking him with a toy, even though he hadn't told John to do that.

The strange thing was—Sherlock didn't mind it. It wasn't like when other people had tried it. He felt out of control, certainly, but it wasn't a spiral. Not a bad feeling.

No, it just felt like his skin was on fire and his brain had gone to jelly. Perhaps it was the combination of being watched so intensely, and being too far gone to anticipate any of John's movements. Sherlock could feel the heat coiling in his stomach, then tension building rapidly.

Pressure, constriction, tingling. It was almost painful.

But then John nudged the vibrator across his prostate one more time. Sherlock was falling. His entire body seemed to clamp down onto a single point of intensity.

Then he was coming. Crashing. Burning up from the inside out while wave after wave of endorphins pulsed through his brain. The rhythmic spasms nearly did him in. He was completely blank for a few moments.

And then he was sticky and sweaty, lying on the floor, with heavy limbs. The toy was switched off but still inside him. John looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack. Certainly, an increased amount of blood had been diverted to his erection. Sherlock didn't think he'd ever seen in throb so angrily. It was still leaking onto his stomach, mixing with his own fluid.

Sherlock trailed his hand lazily up John's thigh before wrapping it around the smaller man's cock. It didn't take much. John was almost indecently aroused. Perhaps a minute or two, and then splattered Sherlock's stomach with his ejaculate.

Neither of them said anything.

John slumped down to the floor. They lay there, staring at the ceiling and panting quietly. Eventually, Sherlock removed the vibrator. But he still didn't feel like he could manage to stand up. In fact, it almost seemed like he might fall asleep. The drowsiness was starting to creep in at the edges of his consciousness.

"I'm going to think up an appropriate punishment for that," Sherlock yawned.

"For what?"

"I told you to touch my cock, not the toy."

"Well you certainly didn't seem to mind it," John chuckled slightly.

"It's the principal of the thing, John. You don't follow orders—I hurt you."

John let out a small sigh. But it seemed more content than frustrated.

* * *

It was 4:00 in the bloody morning. That was the first thing John registered. Because yes, he was well aware that Sherlock had woken him—that the taller man was all but shaking him by the shoulders. But before he looked up, he looked at the clock.

"Come on John, wake up! Did you finish packing last night?"

John blinked blearily. Packed. Oh yes. Friday. They were going to visit Sherlock's mother today. But… why was it so early? They weren't supposed to leave until noon.

He wanted to ask some clarifying questions, but his brain would not cooperate. So instead he groaned and tried to roll over.

Then Sherlock was practically on top of him.

"They've found another body!" Sherlock babbled excitedly. "If we hurry we can make it to the crime scene before they ruin anything. Then we can just catch a cab from Bart's."

All the words made sense intellectually, but John was still having a difficult time comprehending their meaning. Because it sounded like Sherlock wanted to drag him out of bed so that he could go look at a corpse.

Perhaps Sherlock was rubbing off on him, in a not quite so good way. Because for a few moments, instead of being sad that someone had died John thought—_why can nobody ever get murdered at times convenient for my sleep schedule?_ Of course, he felt guilty almost immediately. It was probably the only reason he cracked his eyes open again.

"I'm packed," he said groggily. His suitcase was in the closet, stuffed with all the necessities.

He'd only agonized slightly over what to bring. Somehow, he didn't feel like he owned anything expensive enough to wear around the Holmes family—if Sherlock and Mycroft's tastes were anything to judge by. But he'd done his best.

Sherlock grabbed the duvet and yanked it down onto the floor. John's naked body cringed up into fetal position at the sudden cold.

"Be ready to leave in five minutes, John." Sherlock's voice dropped slightly, "That's an order."

And then Sherlock was gone. Back down the stairs. John lay on his mattress for a few moments longer. He could hear the rain splashing against the window. Of course it would be raining. He sighed.

Then he stood and got dressed—in of his more comfortable cable knit jumpers and jeans. He grabbed hold of his small suitcase and trudged down the stairs. Sherlock was sitting on the arm of the couch, already bundled up in his coat, scarf tied around his neck. There was a small leather suitcase at his feet. Even at this ungodly hour of the morning, he managed to look pretty damn attractive.

"Make yourself tea. I can't have you complaining all morning about not getting your little fix," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone. He was sending off what looked like a million texts at once.

John smiled slightly and went to the kitchen, putting on the electric kettle. After the water boiled, he threw a teabag into his favorite mug and drenched it, pouring in a splash of milk, and an ice cube so that he'd be able to drink it faster. The first sip was heaven. The rest was downed far too fast. He grabbed a few biscuits, as breakfast was probably out of the question, then returned to the living room.

Sherlock finally looked up at him, with bright eyes, and John wondered if he'd slept at all.

"This one is dismembered," the detective said biting his lip. "Moriarty must be getting nervous. It appears that the man's face and fingertips were cut off, and all his teeth pulled out so the can't identify him by fingerprints or dental records."

John shuddered slightly at the mental image. It was far too early for this. Sherlock stood, dragging his suitcase behind him. John followed him out of the apartment and onto the street. It was still dark, the streetlights surrounded by a haze of mist and drizzling rain.

Sherlock flagged down a cab and then they were off. John dozed fitfully as they weaved through traffic. Sherlock nudged him awake some indeterminate time later. The rain had stopped for the most part, but the air was still damp and heavy. John clambered out of the cab, feeling a bit silly dragging both his and Sherlock's suitcases towards the police tape and flashing lights in the distance. But normalcy was such a foreign and faded concept these days. He didn't dwell on it for too long.

Lestrade was standing at the edge of the sidewalk, looking about as tired as John felt. There were dark circles under his eyes and he was holding a thermos. A tall townhouse loomed in the fog. The door was wrapped in police tape and about a dozen officers were milling around the perimeters.

"We found the body on the third floor," Lestrade said without any preamble. "It's an empty house. The tenants were evicted a few weeks ago. But well… you'll see when you get up there. It's not pretty." The DI shook his head.

John took a deep breath. Lestrade actually looked a bit shaken. It was a rare sight. John wasn't sure if he wanted to see what had made him that way. But Sherlock was already stepping into the townhouse.

John left the suitcases just inside the door. Out of the weather, but off to the side where he doubted anyone would bother them. Then he followed Sherlock up the winding staircase onto the landing of the top floor. There was a trail of blood starting at the top stair, leading down the hallway—as if a body had been dragged.

He was certain Sherlock saw a lot more about the situation than he did, but the taller man didn't share it. He remained silent, stepping along side the trail.

The door to every room was open. Each was empty. That is, until they reached the last room. John's breath caught.

As an army doctor, he was no stranger to the rusty smell of blood. But as the wave hit his nostrils, he came dangerously close to loosing his composure. There was a body… if you could call it that. It was a mostly skinned lump of flesh sitting in the middle of a room that somebody had taken great pains to decorate as a nursery.

The walls were pale yellow, splashed with blood. A rather ornate wooden crib stood in the corner, with carvings of animals on each pole, and a headboard with a picture of a tree painted on it. A baby mobile hung overhead—with little wooden stars—spreading a soft tinkling music in the otherwise deadly quiet house. Sherlock's eyes were wide as he stared at the scene. John could feel the tension in the other man's body.

"What the fuck is this?" John whispered

Sherlock said nothing for a long while. He simply took quick, shallow breaths.

"That's an exact replica of my childhood crib… unless he broke into my old nursery and stole the real one." The sentence was quiet. But John heard the gravity in every word. Sherlock had gone even paler than usual.

"Oh my god."

John felt ill. His internal organs were sliding against each other unpleasantly. Suddenly this wasn't just about a murder and drug smuggling. This was something even more sinister and twisted.

Sherlock's hand brushed against his gently, and then their fingers intertwined. He could feel the other man shaking.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there. Simply holding Sherlock's hand. Eventually he had to look away from the room, because he couldn't take it any longer. But he continued to stand in the doorway.

Eventually Sherlock squeezed his hand.

"Well, I think I've gathered as much as I can," the words sounded a little bit choked.

"Do you want to… well maybe let Anderson collect some samples that we can take to Bart's?"

"Yes, for once there's not much more he can ruin."

Sherlock stepped back into the hallway. John released his hand. But the taller man still looked unstable. His eyes were slightly glazed over, and his shoulders were hunched down. John glanced over his shoulder to make sure nobody was coming up the staircase, and then he pulled Sherlock into a quick hug.

The taller man returned the pressure of John's embrace and let out a shuddering breath. Sherlock planted a quick kiss on John's forehead. Then they released each other and made their way back out of the house.

* * *

Sherlock felt a little less panicked in familiar surroundings. The lab at St. Bart's was like a second home. A solid metal stool beneath him, eye pressed against a microscope—the smell of chemicals hanging heavy in the air. As far as he'd been able to establish, dismemberment was not the cause of death. More an artistic afterthought. Because so far the blood showed high amounts of every narcotic he'd bothered to test for.

The man had died of overdose. That much was certain. Sherlock could only imagine the horror of overdosing on such a drug cocktail. So far, heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine, PCP, DMT, MDMA, LSD and mescaline were present. There were also several less common test chemicals in the mix, such as 2CI, 2CB, and AMT.

Apparently, this man was a sample of everything Morairty had been smuggling. It was a taunt, but also a lot of valuable information.

Sherlock's mobile had vibrated once since he'd left the crime scene that morning. Of course it was Jim.

**Did you like my present? - JM**

His chest had clenched unpleasantly. He'd suspected Moriarty was doing all of this for his benefit. But he hadn't quite wanted to come to terms with it yet.

Sherlock would have liked to think that Jim was killing off subordinates nervously—trying to keep the yard from finding his base of operations. But after this morning, he'd gone back over the old photographs and he'd realized that each of the victims were killed and then dragged to a specific location _in order to be found_.

He'd plotted the location of every murder on the map. They were seemingly random. Nothing immediately discernable. But he was sure a pattern would emerge soon enough.

His pocket vibrated again. He drew away from the microscope. John was sitting on a stool next to him, slumped over on the counter, arms folded as a pillow. His breath patterns indicated sleep.

Sherlock opened his mobile.

**Come on, darling. Play the game. I've done all this work. The least you could do is respond - JM**

The detective paused for a moment, taking a mental inventory of himself. He was still quite shaken. The body hadn't really bothered him. He'd seen worse. But... he'd found the juxtaposition of a meat pile and a nursery unsettling. Not to mention that the room had been a stand in for _Sherlock's_ nursery. It couldn't bode well. Besides, he shouldn't have any interaction with Moriarty when he wasn't in a peak mental condition. It could result in undoubtedly dangerous things happening.

Moriarty frightened him.

Probably nowhere near as much as he should—but the fact that he scared Sherlock at all was really quite impressive. There were few people on earth that could actually surprise him. Make him feel uneasy and out of his depth.

Moriarty frightened him, and it was more than a bit thrilling in all the wrong ways.

**Why the crib? - SH**

Sherlock hit the send button and he waited. Certainly, the body had distracted him slightly. But he knew that it wasn't much more than a gruesome means of getting the drug sample to Sherlock as far as Jim was concerned.

What he didn't understand was the crib. The fact that it was _Sherlock's_ crib meant something important. It had to. Otherwise why would Jim go through all that trouble? Was it just a power play? Was it just meant to show Sherlock that Jim had eyes inside the Estate, right under Mycroft's nose?

Or did it speak to something darker still?

**I'm not going to just tell you. That wouldn't be any fun at all - JM**

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course Jim wouldn't tell him. But he wasn't any closer to figuring it out.

**You're rather fixated on the imagery of innocence. Teddy bears and cribs - SH**

**It's not a fixation if it's on purpose - JM**

Sherlock mulled that one over for a little while. John stirred next to him, but didn't wake.

**The bodies are leading somewhere - SH**

**Obvious. Even your scrumptious little DI would have figured that out eventually - JM**

**You want me to find you - SH**

**Yes. Just you - JM**

**Wouldn't it be easier if you just kidnapped me? - SH**

**We both know that I don't need to. You'll come willingly. You love to solve puzzles and I love to create them - JM**

**I'll only come 'willingly' because otherwise you'll hurt John - SH**

**Are we really still using that excuse? I was kind enough to give you a fail-safe. A path to get John out of harm's way. You just haven't used it. And you're still playing. Because you want to - JM**

Sherlock frowned slightly. The gears spun for a moment, because he was tired, and unbalanced.

**You're referring to the photographs - SH**

**Nice clean cut way to get your pet to leave you. I thought it was quite artistic - JM**

**So my choice is between getting John to leave me, or cooperating with you so that you don't hurt him? My. How generous of you - SH**

There was a long pause after that. The reaction Sherlock had been monitoring under the microscope—to test for traces of formaldehyde—had been ruined. He was in process of prepping a new slide before his mobile buzzed again.

**I don't understand the appeal. He's so normal and boring. I could give you everything you want. He's superfluous - JM**

**No. You could give me everything you think I want - SH**

**What's the difference? - JM**

**He loves me. You're not capable of that. Just like I'm not - SH**

**If you're not capable of it, why do you want it? - JM**

**I don't know - SH**

Somewhere in his mind, Sherlock knew he was being far too candid. But on one level or another, he did consider Jim to be an equal. One of the only people on the planet that might actually understand him.

They were not the same—but they were made up of similar parts. Perhaps Jim could sympathize with the stark loneliness of being so far above everybody else. When it was easy to manipulate everyone around you, it mostly stopped being fun.

But there was everybody and then there was _John_. John who knew Sherlock was dangerous, who knew he was not to be trusted, but trusted him anyway. John that let Sherlock do unspeakably humiliating things to him, and asked for more. John, that was the only person who seemed to accept him exactly as he was. John would never hurt him. John jumped headfirst into all sorts of dangerous situations with him—and made him feel _safe_ while they did it.

Perhaps Jim pursued Sherlock so feverishly because he was after that sort of companionship, somebody to brave the bleakness of existence with. But he could never really trust Jim. The man was broken far beyond repair.

John stirred next to him. Sherlock pocketed his mobile, and didn't look at it when it vibrated again. The good doctor blinked blearily.

"What time is it?"

"Half past eleven," Sherlock placed his new slide carefully under the microscope. Ah, there it was.

"You let me sleep for three hours!" John spluttered in exasperation.

"Honestly, John. First you're complaining about a lack of sleep, then you're complaining about too much of it. You're going to have to make up your mind."

The body had traces of formaldehyde—but not enough to do much for preservation. So it had been injected as part of the drug cocktail. Interesting. But that was the last thing on the checklist. And now they had a whole half an hour to kill before they really needed to leave for the Estate.

Sherlock drew his elbow off the counter, sending his pen clattering to the floor.

"John, could you grab that for me?" He asked quite politely.

"Seriously?" The doctor groaned.

"This is an important reaction. If I don't monitor it, I'll have to start over."

John grumbled, but he crawled under the counter to retrieve the pen. As he did, Sherlock casually reached down, unbuttoned his trousers, unzipped his fly, and scooted forward on the stool.

"Sherlock!"

John did not crawl out from under the counter. He was probably staring at Sherlock's rapidly hardening cock.

"Yes, John?"

"I just woke up. For god's sake _why_ are you doing this?"

"Because this is a long reaction and I'll get bored."

"Molly could walk in at any moment."

"Don't even pretend you're not aroused by that fact."

John let out a tired, long-suffering sigh. But then a moist tongue gently lapped against the slick head of Sherlock's cock and the detective bit down on his lip to keep from moaning. The slippery heat of John's mouth was exquisite.

* * *

_Woof. That was a bit intense. Anyway,__** TheGuardian'sOfTheFishbowl **__asked for toys, and __**Rutgerberger**__ asked that John "pick his pleasure" out of Sherlock's toy box... albeit with a little bit of a twist :)_

_I'm almost certain other people asked for more sex toys but at the moment I can't remember who._

_This was un-betaed and edited while feverish, as usual. I really need to start getting these done sooner. But ah well. I'll fix things as I see them and I appreciate any catches._

_Reviews, follows and __favorites are my narcotics. No. Seriously. I get so giddy. You don't even know. I flail every time I check my email. Often in public places. It should be embarrassing, but we've already established that I have no shame. Anyway, feed my habit, and you'll win my undying affection._

_Next Wednesday we're headed to the Holmes Estate for lots of wonderful angst and debauchery. Oh my. It's going to be fun :D_

**_If you skipped the third part:_**_ Sherlock and John go to a crime scene. It's another one of Moriarty's drug dealers, presumably. The body is nearly unidentifiable. But the room the body was found in has an exact replica of Sherlock's childhood crib in it._


	15. Inherited Traits

_Fair Warning: I swear I never meant for this thing to have plot. It just happened. And now it's like a runaway train. I hardly have a say in it anymore. All the characters have gone rogue. They do what they like without consulting me. Anyway, this chapter is all John's POV. And for once, I don't actually have much to warn you about. I mean, I'd warn you about the gratuitous sex. But you already know about that part ;)_

* * *

It was a long, mostly quiet ride to the Holmes Estate. Sherlock had called a cab, but the second they stepped out of St. Bart's, there was a slick, black car waiting for them. Sherlock grumbled about it, but they both got in. Because if they didn't get in, lord knows Mycroft would just have it follow them.

John stared out the window as the buildings passed by. Then slowly the skyscrapers and townhouses gave way to rolling hills, trees, and green fields. He didn't know exactly where they were going. But they kept getting further and further away from the city.

Eventually they made a turn off the main road and John saw the house in the distance. Well, house wasn't exactly the right word. Mansion might be more appropriate.

They drove up a long, winding road lined with trees, and John saw snippets of the sprawling grounds of the Estate. It looked like the type of grandiose properties you'd see in period films about royalty. He'd known Sherlock's family was well to do. But he hadn't been aware people actually lived in such magnificent places.

The house itself was quite impressive, more so as they got closer. The building was red brick, with crisscrossing ivy trellises climbing up the front walls. There were three floors, with plenty of large, French windows. There were two tall, white pillars that supported the roofing over the double-door entrance.

As the car pulled to a stop, John found it a bit difficult to collect himself enough to stop gaping and get out. His shoes crunched on the gravel driveway. Before he could protest, the driver fetched their luggage and tottered up to the front door with it.

Sherlock got out of the car with a sour expression on his face. John could only imagine what it must have been like to grow up in a place like this. With every step towards the front door, the weight of old money seemed to sink down on him. He'd never been particularly comfortable in places like this. Given the choice between staying at a five star hotel or a tiny bed and breakfast, John would take the bed and breakfast every time. Luxury made him uneasy, for reasons he couldn't quite put into words.

Perhaps it was just that he knew he didn't belong. When he thought of his Mother's tiny flat in Sussex, and his father's Cottage in Cambuslang… well neither of those places even seemed like they belonged on the same planet as this house.

"Come along, John, and try not to look so overwhelmed." Sherlock stepped briskly up the driveway. John followed, feeling a bit like a lost puppy.

His amazed bewilderment didn't end when they entered the house. The high ceiling and long front corridor made him feel even smaller. The walls were covered in old portraits, with gilded picture frames. He was barely startled out of his open mouthed stare when somebody cleared their throat.

Mycroft was standing halfway down the long staircase at the end of the front hall. He walked down the rest of the way in slow, measured steps. He was dressed in a dark charcoal suit and a deep burgundy waistcoat.

"So nice of you to join us, dear brother." Mycroft drawled, stepping onto the soft carpet of the hallway and continuing his advance. "And Mr. Watson. How wonderful to see you as well. We weren't exactly expecting you, but I'm sure accommodations can be made. There are plenty of guest rooms after all. Shall we put him down in the south wing?" He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and let the suggestion of a smirk spread across his face.

"I'm sure John will be perfectly comfortable in _my_ room, thank you," Sherlock said crisply.

"Really, Sherlock. That's hardly appropriate. Whatever would Mummy think?"

"There's no need to tell her. Put John's things in the south wing if you must. But where he sleeps is hardly any of your business."

Sherlock began to walk down the hallway towards the stairs. John glanced at Mycroft and was greeted with a rather lecherous smile.

"Dinner is at eighteen hundred. I trust you and Sherlock will be there on time?"

"Um… yeah. I'll make sure."

"Very good," Mycroft glanced John up and down. "Sherlock's been a bit enthusiastic with the riding crop lately has he?"

John felt his cheeks start to go pink. Of course Mycroft could see. Probably in the way he carried himself or something.

"John," Sherlock was already at the top of the stairs. "Hurry up."

The doctor nodded awkwardly at Mycroft before walking briskly towards the stairs—happy for an excuse to escape that cold, rather predatory gaze.

Sherlock waited until John was ahead of him on the stairs before he continued walking, touching his hand to John's lower back and nudging him forward. Sherlock steered John through another long hallway, passing by countless doors, antique chairs, bookshelves, and paintings. Sherlock moved his hand to the good doctor's shoulder and squeezed. They stopped walking.

Sherlock opened a heavy oak door into a spacious room. John only had to stare for a few seconds before he knew it was the detective's bedroom. The bookshelves full of scientific texts, the odd knickknacks sitting on every available space, and the dresser undoubtedly full of expensive suits and silk shirts all reminded John of Baker street. The only things missing were the crystal lab beakers and Bunsen burner that usually sat on the kitchen table. Instead a king-sized four-poster bed sat in the corner, draped in a black duvet and folded down purple sheets.

The tall detective closed the door behind them and turned the lock. Then he pressed John up against the wall and captured him in a violent kiss.

John's head spun slightly when Sherlock pulled away.

"The south wing," Sherlock snorted. "I bet he'd put you right next to his study."

The good doctor was unsure how to reply. But apparently it wasn't necessary, because Sherlock dove in for another kiss. This one was a bit gentler. Sherlock dipped his tongue into John's mouth in slow, deep motions. John's skin seemed to buzz with excitement.

"We both smell like lab chemicals. I think perhaps a shower is in order," Sherlock nipped at John's lower lip playfully. Then he tugged the smaller man towards a door at the far end of the room.

Of course Sherlock had his own bathroom.

They shed their clothes as they walked—kicking off shoes and throwing shirts indiscriminately over the cold hardwood flooring. By the time they reached the other door, they were both naked.

The shower was a fair shade larger than the one back at Baker Street. It took up a whole corner of the room. It consisted of two tiled walls, and two glass panes, converging to make a large square. Sherlock pulled John in and turned on the spray, stepping underneath after giving it some time to warm.

John couldn't do much more than watch breathlessly as the water rushed down, soaking Sherlock's dark curls and plastering them to his pale skin.

Sherlock smiled, and wrapped his arms loosely around John, pulling him into the heat of the water. John let out a small sigh as he felt some of the tension leave his body. It had been a long day for both of them—and it wasn't nearly over.

The taller man grabbed a bottle of shampoo off the shelf fixed to the wall and poured it into his hands. He began to work it through his own curls before tangling his fingers in John's cropped blonde hair and gently massaging his scalp.

"Promise me you won't wander off tonight," Sherlock murmured vaguely.

"I don't know where I'd go." John found it quite difficult not to simply relax into Sherlock's touch and let his mind go blank.

"This is a large house, it's easy to get lost. I'd hate to think what might happen if one of my aunts cornered you for questioning."

"Do you think I'd survive?" John rolled his eyes. Sherlock rinsed John's hair and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"You've met Mycroft. Imagine how pleasant the rest of my family is."

"Dear god," John chuckled. "They're all that bad?"

"Worse, because most of them are idiots. Rich, nosey idiots, who only notice the most annoying and trivial things. Except for my uncle Theodore. If he tries to talk to you, politely excuse yourself. If you think my deductions are inappropriate, that's only because you've never heard his."

"I don't even want to think about what that would entail."

Sherlock slowly ran his fingers up John's spine, then around his lower ribs. Sherlock touched him softly, tracing gentle, fluttering lines until his hands came to rest on John's hips. He leaned down to whisper into John's ear—even though there was nobody to hear them. "We've still got a couple of hours before dinner."

"How ever shall we pass the time?" John smirked. He felt the heat start to rise in him. His blood had rushed south the second Sherlock got naked, but now he was fully erect.

"Hmm… so many options. I'm quite tempted to just shag you right here in the shower Mr. Watson. But then again, Mycroft will be downstairs, greeting the guests. Perhaps we should sneak into his room so I can have you there."

"Sherlock! It's the middle of the afternoon!"

"Precisely the time he's not going to be using his bed."

"I'm not doing that. What if he catches us?"

"He'd probably just watch. But we could lock the door if you're extremely adverse to the idea of him walking in."

"Jesus, how are you _not_?"

Sherlock just nipped at John's neck, and slipped his hands down to grab two large handfuls of the good doctor's arse cheeks.

"Come on, John. Wouldn't you like for him to see me taking you? Marking you? Don't you want him to know how thoroughly you belong to me?"

John bit down on his lip. He had to strategize very carefully. It seemed like the best course of action was to start having sex with Sherlock right there, so that they wouldn't make it to Mycroft's bedroom.

Despite how titillating of an idea it was—John would really prefer never having nudity and Mycroft in the same equation. So, he slid his hand down Sherlock's stomach and wrapped his fingers around the detective's cock in a way that he hoped was nonchalant.

"Trying to distract me?" Sherlock laughed darkly, "How cheeky." He slapped John hard on the arse. But then he crowded him up against the tile wall and licked a sinful kiss out of his mouth.

The steam swirled around them—warm wet skin sliding together. Sherlock was grinding against his hips, rubbing their cocks against each other. John let out a small groan.

"Perhaps I should repay you for earlier today," Sherlock said in a low voice. "I know we didn't get the chance before Molly came back."

John flushed slightly at the memory. Molly had walked in not more than thirty seconds after Sherlock had come down John's throat. John scrambled to zip up Sherlock's trousers, and thankfully Sherlock had been able to send her to get him coffee while John climbed up from underneath the desk. But his cock had ached terribly, in protest of being ignored.

Sherlock slid down to his knees and mouthed at the tip of John's cock. The good doctor groaned, slumping against the tile. "Oh god."

The detective smirked and wrapped his lips around the head of John's prick, tonguing the tense little bundle of nerves right under the glans.

John shuddered. It wasn't fucking fair for Sherlock to have a mouth that perfect. Especially when he began to slide down John's cock effortlessly. Taking him to the hilt.

"Ugh," John grunted.

Sherlock swallowed around him, grinning, and began to bob up and down—maintaining a burning eye contact. He slipped a finger between John's arse cheeks and stroked across John's hole, teasing him. John's legs were suddenly quite shaky. He didn't know whether to thrust forwards into Sherlock's mouth, or buck back against his finger. He was a quivering, fevered mess.

He let out a small whine, and Sherlock hollowed his cheeks, sucking ever harder. John had to close his eyes. Because the image was too much. He couldn't handle seeing Sherlock's pouty lips stretched around his cock, bright blue eyes looking up at him from under his dark curls. He just couldn't.

Sherlock pulled off of him.

"What do you want, John?"

"Oh god, _anything_."

"Do you want me to fuck you?" Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's prick and began stroking him lightly.

"Yes, please."

"Right here in the shower? Or on my bed?"

"Either way, just hurry." John stared thrusting into Sherlock's fist. The detective allowed it, dipping down to tongue the head of John's cock before replying.

"Stay here. I'll be right back."

John bit back a moan at the loss of contact, but he stayed slumped against the wall as Sherlock disappeared. He only had to wait a minute or so before the tall detective was back. Holding a tube or lubricant. He tugged John over so they were out of the direct spray, and squeezed some of the viscous liquid into his hand. He brushed between John's arse cheeks, pushing a single slick finger inside him.

The doctor squirmed, draping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock brushed against John's prostate and sealed his mouth with a desperate kiss as John whimpered. Two fingers. John squirmed, pushing back, wordlessly asking for more.

Sherlock grabbed John's right thigh and pulled it up. John obliged, wrapping the leg around Sherlock's hip.

Three fingers.

"Are you ready John?" Sherlock's breath was ragged against the shell of the smaller man's ear.

"Fuck yes."

"Do you want me?"

"More than anything."

Sherlock grabbed John's arse again and lifted him off the ground. John wrapped his other leg around Sherlock's waist and held tightly as the detective positioned his cock. He sank into John slowly.

Flecks of hot water still hit their skin. The tiles pressing against John's back were warm. Once Sherlock was all the way inside him, the detective paused, breathing deeply—staring into John's eyes. It should have been unnerving, but it wasn't.

Sherlock began to thrust, slowly. John clung to him, shaking. Their lips met lazily.

"You're perfect," the detective mumbled against John's mouth.

John couldn't manage much in terms of a reply. He just held on to Sherlock a little more firmly. Tried not to fall completely to pieces as Sherlock's every motion sent rippling waves of pleasure-pain through his over-excited nerve endings.

The moment stretched, warped, and drew out like thin strands of silk.

Perhaps it was comfort for both of them. Perhaps they were trying to escape the stark loneliness of the dangers in the world, as they chased the tingling want. But Sherlock was being incredibly gentle. Holding John like he had no plans to let go.

And perhaps it made the good doctor melt just ever so slightly.

Sherlock pressed John into the wall more firmly as he picked up speed. His labored breathing mixed with the pattering sound of the shower. Sherlock was usually more verbal. But he wasn't saying much. Just letting out a small grunt now and then.

He shifted angles and a small cry leapt from John's lungs. The detective kept the new angle, thrusting at a deep, steady speed. The outside world seemed to slowly dissolve.

The tension built. It was nearly painful. John made a few, odd, choked off noises. His skin felt over sensitized at every point of contact. But god, he never wanted it to stop.

"That's it, John," Sherlock murmured, "you're so lovely."

The good doctor could hardly stand the intensity. Every muscle in his body was pulled taught, screaming under the weight of the anticipation. The fire burning through him left nothing but ragged pleasure in its wake.

"God, Sherlock…" John could barely get the words out, "I'm going to—ugh."

"Yes, John. Come for me."

John surrendered to the tidal wave, let it crash down on him and drag him under. He drowned in the feeling. His body clenched. Each rhythmic spasm sent him reeling. Sherlock moaned and went perfectly still—holding them both up, but just barely as he emptied himself into John.

They stayed like that for a suspended few moments, before Sherlock withdrew and let John slide down to stand on his shaky legs once again.

The water began to run lukewarm. They rinsed off, then stepped out. John draped himself in a fluffy towel. Sherlock wrapped a towel around his waist, then shook his head like a dog, sending flecks of water flying everywhere, and they both chuckled.

John's skin stiffened into gooseflesh as they walked into the relatively colder air of the bedroom. The clock said it was only 16:45. They still had some time before dinner.

Sherlock nudged John towards the bed and grabbed a book off one of the many shelves. John wriggled under the covers because he didn't feel like dressing. Sherlock stayed on top of the duvet, still wrapped in a towel.

"You'll wake me up if I fall asleep again, won't you?" John looked up, already feeling the drowsiness threatening to overtake him.

It wasn't really his fault. He almost always got a bit sleepy after sex.

"Of course, John." Sherlock reached over and began to gently run his fingers through the smaller man's damp hair. "Don't worry."

John relaxed completely into the feeling, drifting slowly between consciousness, and the blankness of the dark.

* * *

"Are you sure this will look all right?" John was only halfway through buttoning his shirt. The slacks hung loosely about his hips, still not zipped up. The matching blazer lay across the mattress. Sherlock, already dressed and sitting on a nearby chair, let out a long sigh.

"Yes, John. I'm sure once you've actually _finished_ dressing yourself—you'll look fine."

John buttoned his shirt the rest of the way and tucked it into the slacks before zipping them up and pulling on the jacket. He did like this suit. It was a midnight blue. Sensibly cut, so that it showed some of his trim figure—but didn't hug too tightly.

"Do you think I should wear a tie?" John fidgeted in front of the mirror.

"If you want to. I'm certainly not going to."

"I just… I don't know. I don't want to look under dressed."

"Wear the tie if it will make you feel better. Do you normally take this long to get ready? I've never noticed it before."

John shrugged. He wanted to make a good impression. He'd met girlfriend's parents before and it always made him nervous. Not that this was anything like that. He and Sherlock weren't even officially together. At least, not that he was aware of. They'd never talked about it—unless mid-coitus declarations of ownership counted. But still… his stomach felt entirely too jumpy.

He decided to leave the tie off, mostly because Sherlock was fidgeting. He slipped on a pair of black dress shoes, took one last look in the mirror, allowed himself a few deep breaths.

"Well, I suppose this as ready as I'm going to be."

"Relax, John," Sherlock stood and gave him a small squeeze on the shoulder, "you'll do fine. Just stick by me and avoid conversation at all costs."

John shook his head. But he followed Sherlock out of the bedroom and down the hall, back to the first floor. They made a series of uncomplicated turns to arrive in what seemed like the parlor. There were about twenty people already gathered, sitting on the various pieces of furniture or standing in clusters. Holding drinks and making quiet conversation.

Sherlock dragged them off into a corner. The tall man glanced around the room with an utterly unreadable expression.

John fancied he could see the Holmes family resemblance in a few of the people gathered. There was a tall young woman, with curly coal black hair and wide blue eyes that reminded John an awful lot of Sherlock. Then some of the older, plumper, auburn haired men shared a few distinct characteristics with Mycroft, right down to the brightly colored waistcoats and smarmy smiles.

It was almost as if he could feel the group's collective eyes upon him. But whenever he glanced around nobody was looking his way. A butler of some kind came by offering drinks. John took a whiskey and downed it a bit too fast. Sherlock let out a small chuckle.

"Your cheeks flush when you drink."

"Even after just one glass?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. That's what makes it so adorable."

Maybe John smiled a bit at that. Sherlock could tell him he was adorable as often as he liked. After a few minutes, Mycroft came strutting out of the next room.

"Dinner is ready if you'll all follow me into the dining hall." He nodded and beamed in a way that was starkly insincere, even for him. It caught John off guard slightly.

They walked with the crowd into a high-ceilinged room, with a spectacular long, wooden table. Sherlock and John sat down towards the end, far away from Mycroft. They were surrounded by a few older men, and their thin, sour looking wives. There was an empty seat next to John until the table was almost entirely full.

Then the woman John had noticed earlier settled down two seats away, and a tall, blonde man plopped down next to him. The man smelled of alcohol and had a military haircut. He turned to smile at John and his piercing slate-grey stare was more than a bit unbalancing. The man had a scar running from the edge of his left eye down his cheek, to edge at his jaw line. There was something decidedly feral about him.

John returned his smile as best he could.

Mycroft stood at the head of the table, making a short speech about how his mother wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be joining them for dinner. Then different butlers set steaming dishes of wonderful smelling food on the table. John's wine glass was filled. And he settled into the meal, happy not to talk to anybody.

One of the older men was talking Sherlock's ear off about politics. John could hardly pay attention. Mostly he appreciated the wonderfully delicate flavors of the steamed salmon in tarragon sauce, and the doubtlessly expensive white wine.

But then he caught the man next to him looking his way again, and he supposed he should say something, to be polite.

"Are you military too, then?" He smiled, nodding at the man's haircut.

"Yeah. Colonel Tobias Cesario. And you?"

"Captain John Watson."

"Discharged or here on leave?" The other man sipped his wine casually. Something about his directness was a bit disarming, but it had been a while since John spent time with any of his army friends. He supposed it was nice to be talking with another soldier.

"Medical discharge," he nodded reflexively towards his shoulder, "but at least they didn't get me where it counts. And yourself?"

"Did my three tours, and decided that was enough," Tobias chuckled, and motioned to the scar on his face, "though I suppose none of us get out entirely unscathed."

Sherlock had stopped even trying to look like he was listening to the man next to him and was instead gazing fixedly at Tobias.

"So you're Katrina's new kept man, are you?" He smiled in what might have been a polite way on anybody else. But on Sherlock it looked like a precursor to interrogation.

"Fiancée," Tobias smiled holding up a finger with a ring on it. The dark haired woman next to him was apparently paying no attention to the conversation. She looked rather deep in the wine, and was speaking lethargically with the older woman seated across from her.

"Well, that was fast," Sherlock commented, not quietly at all. John squeezed his thigh under the table as a warning.

"You know, I used to scoff at people who said they believed in love at first sight. But then I met dear Katrina, and I must say, I knew the moment I met her that I'd marry her."

"And I'm sure my darling cousin's substantial trust fund had nothing to do with it." A small smirk spread across Sherlock's face.

Oddly enough, Tobias did not look away in embarrassment, or clench a fist in anger—as people normally reacted to Sherlock. Instead, he returned the detective's gaze quite steadily.

"You must be Sherlock. Katrina's told me all about you. Funny enough, people say you resemble each other. I think I see it a bit around the hair and the eyes. A funny thing, genetics. I'm terribly interested in it. _Inherited_ traits are an endless source of fascination to me…. it's really a pity your poor mother didn't feel up to dinner this evening. The poor woman's health seems to be deteriorating quite rapidly these days."

Sherlock's smirk instantly slid into a neutral expression. John felt like he'd just missed something important.

Tobias turned to his fiancé. "Did you want another glass Katrina, darling?"

The woman turned to look at him, and her eyes quite glassy. Her pupils were relaxed and wide at full moons. She was breathing heavily.

Something was wrong.

"'M not feeling well," the woman slurred.

Tobias smiled and patted her on the hand. "Did you take your medicine, my pet?"

The woman's head dipped down, nodding towards her chest for a moment before it snapped back up and she blinked at Tobias with and unfocused gaze. Her face was flushed now.

"Perhaps you've had a bit too much to drink, hmm? Would you like to have a small lie down before dessert?"

John's mind raced. The woman was displaying a lot of classic signs of a heroin high. John glanced at the exposed pockets of her elbows. Clean.

Sherlock must have noticed as well. He'd gone unnaturally still.

"Dear me, Katrina," Sherlock said in a low voice, "have you fallen off the wagon again?"

Katrina tried to look at him, but couldn't seem to maintain the gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about. Just had two glasses of wine."

"I see."

John felt the icy wave of Sherlock's stare more than he saw it. He suddenly felt like he was caught in the middle of two very hungry wolves.

"Katrina, where are you right now?" Sherlock asked carefully.

Katrina seemed to ponder that for a moment. "Out for dinner, I s'pose."

"What day is it?"

"I don't remember. Is it Thursday?"

"What's your father's name?"

"I… well it's…" she trailed off, seeming to nod out again for a moment.

"Now dear, I think that's enough," Tobias cooed softly. "Time to get you upstairs so you can have a nice, long nap."

Tobias stood and gently helped Katrina to her feet. She slumped against him like a broken doll.

"It's been a pleasure," Tobias nodded to both of them. "I'm sure we'll see you tomorrow for the festivities."

And with that they disappeared.

"What was that about?" John asked quietly as soon as they were out of the room.

Sherlock said nothing for a few moments, and furrowed his brow. "Oh, nothing you need to concern yourself over. Katrina's always had terrible taste in men."

"She didn't look well, Sherlock. She was on something," John leaned in closer to whisper.

"Yes, she appeared to be. Opiate problems tend to run in our family. I thought she'd cleaned up, but obviously not."

Sherlock still looked tense, like he was thinking very hard about something. John wondered whether it might have triggered Sherlock—to see someone else so obviously on drugs.

But Sherlock caught John's hand under the table and he squeezed lightly. John squeezed back. They kept their fingers laced together through the rest of the main course and on through dessert. Mycroft was too far away to give comment, if he noticed.

The only other man who took note, uncle Theodore, was seated at the middle of the table. He had the family's dark curls, but also an impressive, rotund belly. He was far too drunk for anybody to be paying much attention.

"They're poufs, the lot of them," he grumbled to himself.

The rest of dinner passed without incident.

* * *

_I don't know why I bother to tell you that none of this had been touched by a Beta. But yes. I do my best a proofreading. Things will be fixed as I catch them._

_Your reviews, follows and favorites are more delicious than chocolate covered strawberries. Which happen to be my favorite food. Yes. You read that right. Better than FOOD._

_This week's shower scene was brought to you courtesy of Star Trek: Into the Darkness. I know we already did shower sex in this story. But then I saw that deleted scene of dear Ben in the shower and... I lost control of my typing fingers._

_Tune in next Wednesday for more fun at the Holmes Estate. It will be all Sherlock's POV, as is the next logical step. We'll meet Mummy, and more than likely see the boys defile some bit of Mycroft's furniture. Bonus points if you can deduce some things about __Tobias Cesariao! Your hint: Shakespeare._


	16. Of Riddles and Hunters

_Fair warning: mentions and descriptions of serious illness, as Sherlock's mother has Alzheimer's. Mildly homophobic language. Mentions of abusive relationships. And then. Um. God. I don't even know what to call it. Because I don't want to give it away. We'll say hints chemically assisted dub-con, though nothing absolutely awful happens in this chapter, I promise._

* * *

Sherlock always remembered the Holmes Estate as being a cold place. The house itself was large, and drafty, as old buildings tend to be. But it wasn't just the structure. Most of Sherlock's childhood memories were rather lonely. There weren't any other children nearby to play with and the help was afraid of him, because he was a child that talked like an adult and _knew_ things about them that he shouldn't.

Even before her illness, Mummy had never been very warm, or nurturing. The things mothers are usually associated with.

No, most of the time Mummy had been sedated.

She loved him. Or at least, so told him so. When Sherlock was younger, he would sit and listen to Mummy talk about nothing. She would make him tea, and comb his hair, and stare into the distance blankly.

Sitting by her sick bed wasn't so different, he supposed. She was still sedated. Only now it was by her own body, rather than the Valium.

Mummy was still sleeping. The whole house was still sleeping. Sherlock had let himself in perhaps half an hour ago, and pulled a chair up next to the bed. He'd just been watching Mummy's chest rise and fall. It was soothing in its own way.

To watch her breathe. To know she was still alive. Once Alzheimer's is diagnosed, the average life expectancy is about seven years. And it hadn't been more than six months since the diagnosis. They had time. But things would only get worse.

It was one of those frigid, unshakeable truths. Nothing could be done about it, so there was no logical reason to become emotionally invested. But to some degree, he couldn't help it. There was an odd weight in his chest when he looked at her fragile body. The soft grey curls, and small, round face. She'd always been a petite woman. Sherlock had towered over her by the time he was thirteen years old.

He'd never feared her. Always felt rather protective. Especially when Father was home. Father drank too much. And whenever he got drunk, he threw copious amounts of verbal abuse in Mummy's direction. Calling her an idiot, a whore, a good for nothing junkie. Whenever Sherlock interrupted, the insults got hurled in his direction instead. But he didn't mind so much. He'd never been as emotional as Mummy.

In fact, Sherlock had probably grown up to be more like his father than he would ever admit.

Siger Holmes was a man of vindictive intellect. He'd worked in the space program, designing military satellites. He was a brilliant mathematician. To some degree, the government paid him to just sit around and think.

But he was also cruel. He aways had several mistresses, which he treated as badly as he treated Mummy. He paraded them around shamelessly. Once he even brought one back to the estate. At the time, Sherlock didn't understand why any woman would put up with such nonsense. But his father had been quite handsome. People often said that Sherlock looked a lot like him. When Sherlock saw the old photographs of Siger at University—even he couldn't deny the striking resemblance.

Siger was home when Sherlock was a small child, but as he grew, Siger spent more time out of the house. Away on government business, or away on dates with his various kept women. Eventually he bought himself a flat in London and only came back to the estate when he needed to keep up appearances.

If Mummy was sad about it, she never really let on. She'd come from money, but soon after the marriage, Mummy's father had lost everything to the stock market. Siger always seemed to harbor a certain resentment towards the Estate, his family, and everything the wealth stood for. He was content to let Mummy stay in the mansion and take care of things as long as she didn't bother him.

She'd been very pretty in her youth. She was still pretty when Siger died in a car accident and left her everything he owned by default. Sherlock graduated from University the day before the funeral.

Hundreds of people that Sherlock hadn't known showed up to mourn his father's death. After they'd put Siger in the ground, Sherlock had stared at the head stone for hours, trying to feel something. Perhaps if he'd known his father as anything other than the occasionally adversarial force that wandered into the otherwise quiet life at the Estate he would have been sad. Mycroft was sad. Everyone else was sad. But he wasn't.

Mummy stirred slightly. Sherlock reached out to lay his large hand across her smaller one, soothing. She slowly opened her dull, grey eyes and looked up at him.

"Siger?" She blinked for a moment in confusion.

There was a pang of dread in Sherlock's chest. To be fair, it was dark. Just the dull glow of the bedside lamp, draped with a blanket to diffuse the brightness. And sometimes Mummy's memories got confused. He knew that. But every time it happened he still wasn't prepared.

He'd never been able to decide whether he should tell her to truth, or ease her to calmness with more lies.

So instead he just smiled. "It's ok. Go back to sleep."

But then she blinked a few more times. It was odd to watch her come back to herself. To fade in and out. "Sherlock!" She clutched feebly at his wrist. "When… when did you get here?"

He could sense the uncertainty. How she didn't know if he'd been sitting there for weeks and she just couldn't remember.

"I just arrived this afternoon. I would have come up to visit, but Mycroft said you were resting. It's your birthday today. We're having a party."

"That's very nice, dear," she sighed, relaxing.

She drifted back off again after a while.

Alzheimer's runs in a family.

For the most part, Sherlock tried to avoid thinking about what it would be like. For his mind to atrophy slowly, until he could no longer remember the faces and names of his family. Without his intelligence, he was nothing. Just a bitter shell of loneliness that wouldn't be useful to anybody. People didn't love him like people loved his mother.

Well. Most people. Would John still love him if he stopped being clever? If he struggled with remembering what day it was and what brand of tea he liked to drink? Perhaps. But it might be love mixed with pity. Sherlock would hate that more than being alone.

Eventually Sherlock started to feel a bit drowsy. He stood and wandered through the still dark halls of the Estate back towards his room. John had fallen asleep hours ago. But Sherlock hadn't been able to.

His mind was racing far too quickly. So much new information to process. He hadn't expected this to be such an interesting visit. He wasn't sure if he was excited or slightly worried.

Because whoever Tobias Cesario (surely a fake name) happened to really be, he was undoubtedly quite dangerous.

He was Moriarty's inside man. He had to be. Because over the course of the evening, Moriarty had been sending picture messages. Snapshots of different parts of the estate. It had started with picture of Sherlock's crib—he'd sent that one while Sherlock was still at St. Bart's. It was probably the picture the replica had been designed from. But then it continued.

Photographs of the garden. Of various hallways. A bedroom. There'd even been a picture of him and John sitting in the corner of the parlor. Sherlock had deduced from the angle where the spy would have been standing. Next to his cousin Katrina. Tobias was taking the pictures.

And Katarina—well Katrina had obviously been on a rather impressive drug cocktail. Sherlock wished he'd been able to surreptitiously acquire a blood sample, to see where the similarities and differences were between her blood chemistry and the blood of the body he'd been testing at St. Bart's.

He'd run the tracers for everything common he could think of. But that didn't mean he'd tested for everything. Perhaps Katrina had been on a finite mixture of typical narcotics. Perhaps she'd been on something Sherlock hadn't thought to test for. Perhaps it was a new chemical compound all together.

He wouldn't put it past Morairty to create his own, original date rape drug. In fact, it seemed like just the sort of thing that might be in a consulting criminal's interest.

Sherlock reached his door and turned the knob quietly. John was still asleep. Breathing deeply. Sherlock secured the latch behind him, before stripping and walking over to the bed.

Even though he'd never admit it, lying next to John was enjoyable. In fact, it usually helped him relax. To have a warm body snuggled up next to him. John slept like a rock. Didn't toss or turn. But Sherlock's constant motion didn't seem to bother him. He didn't so much as twitch when the detective sank onto the mattress next to him. In fact, he rolled closer, seeking out the body heat.

* * *

"Come on, John," Sherlock gently nudged the good doctor down the hallway.

"Where are we going? I thought the party didn't start until lunchtime," John said, in that adorable way he did when he still hadn't figured out he was in for a thorough fucking.

"It doesn't. But we have some other business to attend to."

"What sort of business?" John's back tensed slightly. He stopped walking and turned around.

He was getting quicker on the uptake these days. But they were so _close_. And it was a rather time sensitive plan.

Sherlock made a few swift calculations. He could certainly carry John's weight. He'd supported him against various surfaces before. And it wasn't more than seven meters to the door of Mycroft's study. He'd have to unlock the door with the key he'd stolen yesterday, of course, and that would be difficult with a struggling John in his arms. But at this point, John hadn't said _no_ because Sherlock hadn't told him what was happening.

All quick motions. Sherlock slid the key into his hand, dipped down, wrapped his arms around John's waist and stood, hoisting the doctor so that his hips were over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock! Put me down right now!" John's voice was almost at a shout, and he was squirming violently.

"Quiet, John, he'll hear you." Sherlock staggered forward. They were at the door in less than a minute. Key slid into lock. Turned. Through the door.

He set John down when they'd crossed the threshold, closed the door swiftly behind them, and wedged a chair under the knob.

John was looking around, at the lavish room. The rows and rows of bookshelves, overstuffed leather chairs, and of course—the large oak desk by the window.

"Sherlock," John's face was a startling shade of pink, "where are we?"

"I'll leave you to your deductions," Sherlock let the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

"This is Mycroft's office, isn't it?"

"You're getting better."

Sherlock tugged lightly at John's wrist, trying to pull him into a kiss. But John still looked a bit cross. Not as much blatantly angry. But perhaps not quite in the mood for a shag.

"I only picked you up and carried you because I wanted to convince you in here instead of the hallway," he rolled his eyes. Not exactly an apology. But John would probably take it as one.

"And why is that?" John prompted.

"Mycroft always comes to his study at ten thirty sharp. It's ten-twelve right now."

John's eyes widened. Mouth dropped open slightly.

"I thought perhaps we could have a bit of fun before he gets here." Sherlock tried to pull John into a kiss again and this time the doctor allowed it. Well, perhaps allowed wasn't the right word. He seemed to have gone into a state of shocked silence. But his lips pressed back against Sherlock's. And when the taller man pulled their bodies closer together, he felt the heat of John's erection.

"I won't make you," Sherlock barely whispered, "but I know you're aroused right now. And I'd be quite disappointed if we missed this wonderful opportunity to defile my brother's desk."

John shivered slightly, "Sherlock, we can't."

"Why not?"

"It's not _right_."

"But you want to?"

John responded by biting his lip, glancing at the door, and then back at Sherlock. He was right on the verge of giving in. Sherlock could see it. He palmed John's erection through the fabric of his trousers. Then he leaned down and stole another kiss. He felt John relax slightly. Oh yes. That was it.

He slowly began to walk John backwards, towards the desk, until the tops smaller man's thighs hit the edge of it.

There wasn't a lot of time to linger. He loosed John's belt and pulled down the zip. John's trousers and pants pooled around his ankles. Sherlock took the tube of lubricant out of his pocket and squeezed some into his hand.

He kissed John as he slid his slick fingers between the smaller man's arse cheeks. He slipped his index finger inside and managed to find John's prostate easily. The good doctor let out a small sigh as Sherlock slipped in another finger, and began to stretch him.

"Does it feel good, John?" He asked low and quiet in the smaller man's ear.

"Yes," John sounded strained. Agitated. Good.

"Do you want _more_?"

"Please."

"Do you want me to fuck you, and fill you, and make you squirm around on my cock until you come?"

"Ugh."

Usually Sherlock would patronize John for not using full words, but there simply wasn't time for it. He withdrew his fingers, grabbed the smaller man's hips and turned him around so he could brace himself on the desk.

He'd sunk halfway in to John's hot, tight hole when before the doorknob rattled.

There was a low muttering in the hallway. John froze. Well, he tried. Sherlock snapped his hips, sinking deeper, and good doctor couldn't help but shudder.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft sounded annoyed. Not infuriated. He hadn't quite grasped the situation yet. "I know you're in there. Move the chair. This is utterly childish."

John looked over his shoulder like a deer in the headlights.

Sherlock just grinned, digging his fingernails into John's skin and thrusting again. John seemed a bit frantic. Sherlock bent forward, to whisper into his ear. "Say the word, and I'll stop. But don't try to tell me you aren't aroused by the fact that he's _listening_. That he might _hear_ us, and know exactly what we're doing."

He punctuated his statement with another slow thrust. John pushed back against him—probably involuntarily. But whether it was consciously meant or not seemed inconsequential.

Sherlock began to establish a slow rhythm. The doorknob rattled again. "This isn't funny. I have _work_ to do this morning. Open the door this instant!"

The detective leaned down and licked the skin on John's neck. Nipped at it. Kissed it. Began to suck a bruise. John shuddered and panted.

"I want you to come across his desk," Sherlock barely kept his voice quiet, "we'll smear it across the wood, and it will be ever so pretty."

John was biting back the moans. Sherlock could feel the smaller man's body tense. Struggling to keep in all the noises he wanted to make.

"Let him hear, John," Sherlock traced his tongue along the curve of the doctor's earlobe. "Let him know how fantastic we are together."

Sherlock changed the angle slightly and a tiny whimper escaped John's lips.

The doorknob rattled again. "For goodness sake! Is John in there with you?" Mycroft sounded cross now. Pause. "If you ruin my desk, I swear to god you're buying me a replacement."

Ah, so he'd figured it out.

"Worth it!" Sherlock called back, picking up the pace.

John seemed torn between utter mortification and blissful acceptance. Sherlock slapped his arse and murmured. "No point in holding back now."

John let out a choked keening noise as Sherlock reached in front of them to stroke the smaller man's cock in time with every thrust.

The good doctor breathed raggedly. He met Sherlock's every motion, driving him deeper. Too far gone. Couldn't seem to suppress the occasional whimper. And even though they were quiet, each sound was so damn lovely.

All noise from the hallway had ceased—which meant Mycroft had either walked away, or was listening intently. Knowing exactly how much his brother was prone to voyeurism, Sherlock suspected the latter. The man had access to every CCTV camera in London, and he didn't always use them for government-sanctioned purposes. No matter how much he complained and griped, Sherlock would know his brother was thoroughly enjoying this.

John's internal muscles began to constrict. He was close. Sherlock kept up the steady motion of his thrusts and his hand.

"Don't fight it, John. Be a good boy and come for me. I can feel you tensing. Just let go. Paint the desk."

The good doctor struggled for a minute longer. Then Sherlock felt his muscles spasm, clenching rhythmically. He felt John's cock twitch as he came across the polished oak.

Sherlock leaned to the side slightly in time to see John's cock jerk one last time as it painted another ribbon across the desk. The gooey white puddles on the dark wood. It was almost enough to send Sherlock over the edge on its own.

"That's rather a lot, John," he grunted. "Best lick some of it up."

John swiped his index finger through the first puddle and brought it up to his lips. Smearing them in his own come before running his tongue over them.

Sherlock groaned. The heat burned through him. His motions became erratic. He brought his hand up to cup John's chin and swipe his thumb across John's slick lower lip.

And that did it.

He shuddered and tensed, emptying himself into John as the world imploded. The near painful pleasure singed through his nerve endings. Rendering him shaky. Heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. Breath labored. Head spinning.

The fall back to earth was gradual. But he got there eventually. Collected himself enough to withdraw and fasten his trousers so that John could get dressed again too. The doctor looked just as spent as he felt.

"Jesus," John muttered. "You're trying to kill me."

Sherlock just dipped down and proceeded to lick kisses out of John's mouth until he could no longer taste the doctor's come on his own lips.

Then he strode over to the door, removed the chair and walked into the hallway casually. John followed, his face an interesting shade of red.

Mycroft, as Sherlock had expected, stood by the doorway, wearing an expression of utter bemusement. His jacket was buttoned. But Sherlock was certain he had an erection. Mycroft glanced towards the desk and back to John—"I'm sorry, Mr. Watson."

John blinked. Obviously uncertain of what to do.

"No need to apologize. He quite enjoyed it," Sherlock smirked.

"Orgasm is not always proof of emotional well-being, dear brother. You'll clean that desk. Until then, I'll be in the library." And with that, Mycroft continued down the hallway.

The words his Sherlock somewhere low and painful. He looked to John, searching for signs of distress. The doctor seemed a bit embarrassed. But not angry. Not particularly upset.

"John… are you…"

"It's fine, Sherlock. Just next time let's start a little earlier, yeah?" He raised his eyebrows.

Cheeky, adorable, bastard.

* * *

They showered before the party, because they were both quite sticky. Things almost started up again. They were kissing and sliding their hands across each other's skin before John pulled back and declared that they were _not_ going to be late to the birthday party.

Somehow, they made it downstairs, dressed respectably, ten minutes before lunch.

Everyone was already in the dining hall, but they'd only be served drinks. Mummy was propped up in her chair at the head of the table. She looked even more fragile under the direct light.

Everyone from the previous night was present. Tobias and Katrina were sitting down at the far end of the table, and Sherlock was obliged to sit by the head of the table, with Mummy and Mycroft.

John settled down next to him. He still looked a bit uncomfortable, and refused to make eye contact with Mycroft. Just as well. The more inclined they were to stay away form each other, the happier Sherlock would be.

Mummy looked a bit startled when the lights flickered and the cook came out to set a large cake down in front of her. Everybody sang, and she looked around with glazed eyes. But eventually she took a feeble breath and managed to blow out the single candle.

The cake was cut and passed around. Most of Mummy's presents were envelopes. Though uncle Theodore did buy a new grandfather clock that he'd set in the living room. For the most part, Sherlock didn't pay much attention to the proceedings. He kept glancing down the table towards Tobias and Katrina.

Katrina still looked like she was on something. Her every motion was sloppy and slowed. Eyes unfocused. She didn't eat anything.

"And who are you, dear?" Mummy was looking directly at John.

"Um… hello. I'm John," the doctor said quietly.

"He's my friend," Sherlock said dismissively. Still focused on the other end of the table.

"Friend?" Uncle Theodore raised an eyebrow. He was, unfortunately, sitting within hearing distance. And he'd been in his cups since early that morning. "I'd say he's a fair shade more than that."

"Uncle Theodore," Mycroft practically beamed, "that's hardly polite."

"And it's hardly polite what you do with that Detective Inspector, either. Five years, Mycroft. What would your father say?"

Mycroft's smile dropped to a neutral expression.

Sherlock turned his gaze towards his uncle. He didn't share much with Sherlock's father in the way of appearances besides the curls. However, he had the same biting intelligence, and general streak of harshness.

"Now, Theodore," Sherlock drawled, "just because some of us don't have to _pay_ for it, there's no need to be jealous. Drink your whiskey and have a nice time. It upsets Mummy to see the family argue."

Mummy had been staring blankly. Probably checked out. She usually missed such things, anyway. She thought Mycroft would marry his PA Anthea, and that Sherlock had lots of girlfriends. It wasn't that she was disapproving of homosexuality, necessarily. She just didn't even know it was an option.

Uncle Theodore grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _bloody fairies. _But he sipped his whiskey. And was soon on to dismantling Cousin Wilma instead.

John was staring down at his plate. Obviously a bit shaken by the way the Holmes family interacted. People usually were. He squeezed John's knee under the table, in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

But it was hard to focus. Katrina and Tobias had once again excused themselves from the table, and were in process of stumbling off. Sherlock's pocket vibrated. He glanced at it surreptitiously.

**I've always thought midnight was a proper playtime - JM**

* * *

Sherlock waited until John was asleep before slowly drawing away from him. He changed out of his pajamas and back into a suit. When going to face an enemy head on, it was always best to look crisp, calculated, not like you'd just rolled out of bed. He tucked John's gun into his coat pocket, mostly as a precautionary measure. He hoped there would be no need to use it.

He walked out into the hallway and gently closed the door behind him. Enough moonlight streamed through the windows so that he didn't need to turn on any lights to navigate. Down the long hall, towards the north wing. The familiarity of it all was heavy, and almost suffocating.

Sherlock stopped in front of the last door on the right—the room that faced out towards the rolling grounds of the estate, with large windows, and bright yellow walls.

The nursery.

He gently turned the knob and stepped inside. The lights burned dimly. A tall figure stood in the far corner of the room, running a large hand along the bars of Sherlock's old crib.

"So… Tobias Cesario isn't your real name," Sherlock drawled as he closed the door behind him. "You're not Italian. You're Irish. And you say the name unnaturally, like it's rehearsed."

The other man turned slowly. He looked much the same as he had at lunch. Except he'd changed into a darker suit.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," the man smiled. "Right on time."

Sherlock gazed long and hard at the man. There was no need to wonder whether or not he did in fact have a military background. He held himself like a soldier. His tan was faded—so it had been a while since he'd fought in the desert. But he still had rather impressive muscles, which meant he made an effort to keep fit. Steady hands. Cold, clear eyes. Sherlock had no doubt that there was a myriad of scars hidden by the fabric of his suit.

This man was a killer.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, at your service," the man lowered his head in a sarcastic bow.

The slight motion betrayed the knife strapped to the man's thigh. He probably had other weapons as well. Ah, so he was an assassin.

"Ex-Colonel," Sherlock kept his tone even and detached. "Military heroes don't often go venturing into London's criminal underbelly, looking for work as hit men. Dishonorable discharge, no doubt something extremely messy—because the Queen's Army would be reluctant to part with a fighter like you. You don't become Jim Moariarty's personal assassin without reason. Sniper, is it?"

"Best shot you're likely to find until you hit Russia. Even then, I could give those bastards a run for their money… he said you were clever," Sebastian squared his shoulders and took a step forward. "What else do you have for me?"

Sherlock raked his eyes up and down Sebastian's body again.

"You have a knife strapped to your thigh, and a pistol on your ankle. You come from good money, because you're perfectly at home here, but you don't live a life of luxury. You're not just a killer—you're a hunter. Probably big game, because a man that works willingly for Moriarty when he doesn't need the money is obviously an adrenaline junkie. And… you're sleeping with dear Jim."

Sebastian shifted almost imperceptibly at that last one. His eyes widened just a little bit, and he took on an even more defensive posture.

"Oh," Sherlock let the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, "not just sleeping with him. You've got _feelings_ for him, don't you? That's just precious."

The other man let his tongue along his lower lip. "Well aren't you cheeky? You know I could kill you, that I have great motivations for it, and you're not afraid at all. I can see why he likes you. You know—when he's angry with me, he talks about all the things he's going to do to you. He gets quite graphic. Would you like to know what he says?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Part of him would very much like to know. The rest of him, however, knew he was being goaded.

"It would be a waste of time. Just like your presence here is a waste of time. You're not here to kill me. Just to try to _scare_ me. Doesn't he know that's pointless?"

"Having a spy on the inside of the Holmes Estate is pointless?" Sebastian cocked his head. "You're not the only man in your family that the Boss cares about, you know. He likes you best, certainly. But I'd say your brother's more of a _threat_ in the end. After all, you're just a man. You don't run the British government."

The gears spun for a moment.

_Oh._

Really, the signs had been there—that Moriarty's little game involved Mycroft as well. Sending Mycroft the photographs hadn't just been to get John to leave. He'd been using Sherlock to put the same pressure on Mycroft as he'd been using John to put pressure on Sherlock. Well now, that was interesting.

"And what business does Mr. Moriarty have with my dear brother?" He asked almost politely.

"You know the Boss. It's the pretense of business. But really, he just wants to take the world apart."

"Perhaps… but he likes to make money while he does it. After all, somebody has to pay for all those _Westwood_ suits, like the one you're currently wearing. I'll bet he bought it for you after you killed someone important."

"Jim does take good care of his employees."

"For all the trouble he gives me about having a pet, he's hardly one to judge. I bet you're a good little dog," Sherlock sneered. "And that's why you don't frighten me. He told you not to kill me. He wants to do that himself… and you're nothing, if not obedient."

Sherlock met Sebastian's eyes, and he waited. He could practically see the anger boiling just below the surface. The man was clever, certainly. Deadly, no question. But he was nowhere near as smart as Jim.

The weak spots were far too visible.

"What's it like to give up without a fight, Mr. Moran?" he said softly. "That's why he likes me better, you know. Because I fight him every inch of the way. I bet _you_ drop to your knees the second he looks in your general direction."

Oh yes. That did it. Sebastian's eyes were wide and dark. His fingers were twitching, like he wanted to reach for a gun. Sherlock maintained a perfect mask of apathy and waited for the information to pour out.

"If you weren't so busy screwing that aging doctor, you'd have realized what was going on a long time ago," Sebastian spat. "But you've got no idea do you? Even when he's laid everything out so nicely for you."

"I think I'm starting to get the idea," Sherlock kept his face carefully blank, "the little drug cocktail you two have been working on is time released, isn't it? I believe we witnessed Katrina during the starting stages. It wasn't a very high dose, was it? Just a drop or two in her wine."

Sebastian let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, you are _fun_. Maybe the Boss will let me have a go after he's done playing with you. Before he kills you. If not, perhaps I'll get the doctor instead, hmm?"

"If you touch, John, you'll die. That _is_ a promise."

Sebastian took another step forward and Sherlock pulled out John's gun. Surprise flickered over the other man's face for just a moment.

"Now, now. There's no need for that," Sebastian smirked. Then he made an odd motion. Sliding something out of his sleeve down into his hand. What was he sliding into his hand? Sherlock's mind raced. Too small to be a gun. He had a gun on his ankle. Not a knife. Not the right sort of motion.

"Come any closer and I'll shoot," Sherlock kept his voice calm. "First in your kneecap, then perhaps your stomach."

Sebastian smiled. "It really is a pity you're on the wrong side of the war. I bet you'd be ruthless."

It all happened far too quickly.

Sebastian moved, Sherlock pulled the trigger, but missed. The bullet grazed Sebastian's thigh. But he was a solider after all. So that didn't do much to stop him. He came within reaching distance. Then Sherlock got to find out what was in his hand.

A little aerosol spray—it almost looked like an inhaler. Sebastian triggered it and suddenly a bitter cloud of chemicals shot into Sherlock's face.

And then, everything went quiet. Like his mind was wrapped in a warm, comforting, wool blanket. He was still standing, but weaving slightly. A sense of perfect calm enveloped him, even though he knew it wasn't quite right.

"There we are," the words came slow and tinny. Like they were leaking out of a far away speaker. "We're still working on the name. But I call it Chemical Handcuffs. Now be a good boy and have a kneel."

Sherlock didn't think about obeying. Didn't even think about the order. He only noticed when his knees made contact with the soft carpet.

"Where are you?" Sebastian asked quietly.

"I…" the answer wasn't readily available. He looked around, but it didn't help. He couldn't get his eyes to focus.

"Oh, that's just wonderful."

A phantom hand raked gently through Sherlock's curls. He leaned into the touch. It felt so good. So _right_.

"I could have you right here, and you'd let me," the voice sounded smug. In control. Powerful. "But the Boss wouldn't like that at all. And he would know. He _always_ knows. So I suppose I'll just wait my turn."

Sherlock shivered as a pair of lips pressed against his. Warm and soft. A tongue squirmed into his mouth and he let out a small whine.

"Fuck," the voice breathed. "Lie down, now, pet. It'll be a while before it wears off."

Sherlock complied happily. Stretching out on the floor. He closed his eyes. He heard a door open and shut. The voice and hands were gone. He missed them vaguely for a moment.

But then he just let himself drift into utter emptiness.

* * *

_EEEEEEPPPPPPP! Don't worry. Sherlock's not dead. I'd never do that to you._

_At any rate, most of you guessed that Tobias Cesario was indeed Sebastian Moran. I mentioned Shakespeare because of the play "The Twelfth Night." Viola, who masquerades as her brother Sebastian, calls herself Cesario. There's also an uncle Toby. It wasn't a perfect metaphor. Ah well._

_The smut in this chapter is dedicated to __**EyeofMazikeen**__ because she's been asking for John and Sherlock to have sex on furniture that belongs to Mycroft. Also, because she's just generally awesome._

_Your reviews, follows and favorites are like the perfect cocktail. Just the right amount of sweet, while still managing to be deliriously intoxicating. You've gotten me quite drunk. Perhaps that's why this story keeps running further and further away from me._

_I will see all of you wonderful people next Wednesday. Have I mentioned I love you? Because I do._


	17. The Quiet of the Night

_Fair warning: I am not a medical or chemical expert. All I really know is smutting. And I'll be the first to admit that I do any other research via google, usually at 5:00 in the morning. So sorry if I've made any glaring mistakes/completely ridiculous claims. Feel free to tell me so I can fix them. Otherwise, I have no warnings for you. Just lots of sweet, sweet porn :D_

* * *

John woke to the sound of gunfire, adrenaline already pounding through his veins. He reached instinctively for the bedside table, where he'd left his Sig Sauer. But it wasn't there.

The gun wasn't there.

Sherlock wasn't there either.

John shot out of bed. He ran out the door and down the hall, even though he had no idea what direction he was supposed to be headed in.

"Sherlock!" He called.

A noise came from behind him. Mycroft, in a dressing gown, pale as a sheet had his mobile in one hand and a small pistol in the other. John wasn't sure which one was more dangerous—knowing the people Mycroft could call.

"I think it came from up the hall," Mycroft offered, and continued walking.

John followed.

They passed several doors, some open with confused members of the Holmes family peeking their heads out. Others still closed.

They walked quickly, stopping at the final door in the hall. Closed, but light leaked out from underneath it. Mycroft wordlessly handed John the pistol before carefully turning the doorknob and pushing into the room.

No assailants. No assassins.

Just Sherlock. Lying on the floor, with his eyes closed, and a few bloodstains leading towards the door. Mycroft took a step back and glanced at the open window beside them.

"He must have climbed out," he muttered.

John couldn't really focus on the blood. He just ran towards Sherlock and checked for a pulse. Sherlock's chest rose and fell in steady breaths. Heart rate far above average.

"Sherlock," John whispered.

He ran his fingers down the sharp lines of the other man's face, and Sherlock leaned into his touch, sighing slightly.

"Can you hear me?" John was nearly choking on the panic. He'd no idea what had happened. His gun was on the floor. Safety off.

Sherlock wasn't bleeding. So clearly, he'd done the shooting.

"Hmm…" Sherlock's voice was low and hazy, "that feels nice…"

John looked down to where his thumb was stroking across Sherlock's cheekbone. "Can you open your eyes?"

Sherlock's lids lifted to reveal pupils like black holes. The irises were barely visible and they didn't constrict at the added light.

John felt Mycroft hovering behind him. "He appears to be on some sort of narcotic. Sherlock, can you see anything?"

"No." Sherlock crowded a little closer to John.

"What happened, do you remember?" Mycroft crouched down beside John, waving his hand over Sherlock's eyes. The detective didn't flinch.

"I…" Sherlock trailed off.

"Well let's at least get him out of here."

Mycroft and John slowly helped Sherlock to his feet. Once they got him into some semblance of an upright position, he leaned on John heavily for support. Mycroft had his phone out and was texting furiously. John didn't ask. Didn't want to know. He just helped Sherlock back down the hallway to the bedroom.

When they reached the threshold of the doorway, Mycroft laid a hand gently on John's shoulder. "We'll need to take a blood sample. I'll bring you some equipment. I trust you'll see to my brother better than any doctor I could call."

A vote of confidence and a threat in the same breath. John nodded crisply. He and Sherlock staggered over the bed and he deposited the seemingly boneless lump of detective on the mattress.

Sherlock lolled listlessly. Completely slack and pliant. It was unnatural.

Mycroft returned in a few moments. John didn't want to know why he had a blood collection tube and hypodermic needle so immediately available. Sherlock's veins were clearly visible, though they looked somewhat delicate. John used the rubber tourniquet Mycroft offered to raise them and make them easier to pierce.

Sherlock twitched slightly when the hollow needle punctured his skin. But that was the only protest he gave if he minded. John filled up one tube and then pulled the needled back out. Applying pressure to the tiny wound with the small piece of gauze Mycroft produced.

"Thank you," Mycroft nodded curtly as John handed him the tube. "I'll have this sent to the lab right away. Best we know what we're dealing with."

"Yeah… right." John's heart was still racing.

He barely noticed when Mycroft left and closed the door behind him.

John carefully sat on the edge of the bed, gazing down at Sherlock's glassy eyes. After a few minutes, he checked for vitals. Sherlock once again leaned into his touch. Made a sort of half-effort to roll towards him. Perhaps the body heat.

Except, Sherlock was already burning up. He was sweating. Skin pink, and far too warm to the touch. John fetched a damp washcloth from the bathroom and placed it over Sherlock's forehead. He would have liked to give him something to bring his temperature down. But there was no knowing how even some simple over the counter medication might interact with what Sherlock was already on.

"Let's get you out of that suit," John said softly.

And maybe he didn't notice how Sherlock let out a soft moan. Maybe he was too preoccupied with the way Sherlock's hands immediately went to his shirt and started unbuttoning it. John had meant to help. To undress Sherlock, if he couldn't manage it by himself. But the detective suddenly seemed perfectly capable. In fact, he was naked in record time.

After Sherlock tossed his clothes in an aimless direction, he went still again. Sprawled out on his back, panting. His erection was achingly obvious. Jutting out from his torso, straining towards some far away release.

Part of John thought maybe he should help out. But for once, the rational side of his brain kicked in. Touching Sherlock in his current state would be taking advantage. No telling what might happen. And even if he was reasonably certain that Sherlock wouldn't have any conscious objection to a hand job, John wasn't the sort to push _those_ sort of limits.

"How are you feeling?" John asked. Looking up at Sherlock's face was supposed to help the vague and inappropriate sense of arousal rising in his stomach. But it didn't really. There wasn't a single part of his body John didn't find attractive. But his bone structure, wide eyes, and soft, full lips well… that was _plenty_ to look at.

Sherlock didn't really respond. Just with a soft grunting noise. He'd talked earlier. Had he lost the ability to communicate?

"Try to say something, love," John said in the most soothing voice he could manage.

"Something."

Well. That was a bit odd. Was Sherlock just being cheeky? Or… what was going on here? John shifted on the mattress slightly. Sherlock was simply staring at the ceiling. At least, it appeared he was. He'd already said he couldn't see anything.

"Close your eyes," John said.

Sherlock obeyed instantly. Hmm.

"Roll onto your side."

Sherlock rolled onto his right side so that he faced John, in all his naked glory.

The good doctor frowned. Sherlock wasn't the type to ever follow polite suggestions, much less orders. Perhaps the drug had muddled his mind and he was simply listening to John because he was scared.

But that didn't seem the case. Sherlock was tense, but _frightened_ was definitely not the first word that came to mind. No. It honestly seemed like Sherlock was awaiting further instructions.

"Touch your nose with your index finger," John said, because it was the first thing that came to mind.

The detective's motions were swift and certain. He pressed the pad of his index finger to the tip of his nose almost as soon as the words were out of John's mouth.

Either they were playing some bizarre form of 'Simon Says' that John wasn't aware of—or the drug was forcing Sherlock to obey every order issued to him. Oh god. How? What? John's mind raced.

How had he even been drugged? Had he done this to himself? No. There'd be a shot. Somebody else had done this to him. But who? Who the fuck would break in to the Holmes Estate in the middle of the night to give Sherlock mind-control drugs?

John was a lot of things. But stupid wasn't one of them. Moriarty had to be involved with this. Sherlock had been hiding things from him.

"You can stop touching your nose," John muttered.

Sherlock relaxed back onto the bed. Eyes still closed—completely and utterly submissive. God. Damn. It.

What if Sherlock hadn't gotten a shot off in time? What if John and Mycroft hadn't woken up? Whoever gave him the drug could have done _anything_ to him. John's blood threatened to boil at the thought of it.

John could do anything, but he wouldn't. Nothing besides stand a silent vigil all night. Watching, checking Sherlock's vital signs, and holding tight to his Sig in case the attacker came back. Doubtful, considering Mycroft probably had half the British Secret service on his tail.

When the doctor stopped offering any form of physical contact, Sherlock's erection eventually wilted. He didn't go to sleep. At least, not that John could tell. But his breathing eventually slowed. He didn't seem as feverish.

* * *

Sherlock slowly began to come back to himself in the early hours of the morning. The first thing he became aware of, was his own nudity. The second thing he noticed was the terrible throbbing in his head.

"Ugh," he grunted.

He opened his eyes, but the curtains weren't drawn. The first few rays of light from the sunrise streamed in the window and they were _searing_. He rapidly closed his eyes again and buried his face in the pillow.

"Sherlock?" John's voice floated from somewhere nearby.

"Everything hurts," the detective mumbled. "What the fuck happened? Did you let me get drunk?"

"No… you don't remember?"

"Would I be asking if I did?"

"Here, try to sit up and drink some water. You're probably quite dehydrated."

Sherlock kept his eyes shut. But he allowed John to help him into a seated position and press a glass of water to his lips.

When the first drop of cool liquid hit his tongue, Sherlock realized how thirsty he was. He guzzled down the water. And another glass after it.

"What's the last thing you remember doing last night?" John asked softly.

"I…" Sherlock's brain felt like a rusty bicycle chain. It clattered and creaked, but it wasn't really getting him anywhere. "Didn't I go to bed with you?"

"Apparently not. Because someone drugged you, either before or after you shot them."

_Drugged._

Oh god. The connection felt like it was almost there. He just couldn't quite make it. He let out a grunt of frustration. He was quite used to his mind completing whatever task he set in front of it and its current uselessness was nothing short of vexing.

"You didn't sleep all night. Try to get some rest. I'm sure Mycroft will want to talk to you when you wake up again."

That wasn't a comforting thought at all. However, Sherlock's body was physically exhausted. So he allowed himself to slip away—to doze for a few hours before coming back to the light.

When he awoke again the sun was high in the sky. The brightness still stung but not quite as badly as it had before. John was sitting next to him, reading some sort of medical text.

"Are you hungry?" The doctor asked cheerfully. Obviously hiding a multitude of concerns. Presumably things they'd deal with later.

"Not right now."

Sherlock struggled to a seated position. His feet felt unsteady and foreign underneath him, but he managed to stumble over to the dresser and pull on some clothes. Slacks and a button-down were all he could manage. He probably looked a mess. But he just didn't care.

John closed the book and set it aside. There were dark circles under his eyes. He must have stayed up all night as well. Sherlock tried to smile. Even if it looked fake. John returned it and stood.

"Well then," Sherlock sighed, "perhaps we should get this over with."

They made their way quietly into the hall and back towards Mycroft's study. Sherlock didn't bother to knock, he just pushed his way inside. Mycroft was seated behind a brand new desk, and their cousin Katrina was slouched in an armchair on the other side. Mycroft indicated the two unoccupied chairs next to Katrina. Sherlock and John sat.

"How are you feeling, brother?" Mycroft half raised an eyebrow.

"Like I've been repeatedly run over by one of your limousines," Sherlock grunted.

"I'll say," Katrina's voice was thick and raspy, "you just got one dose. That bastard had me strung out for days."

Sherlock blinked. Yes. That was it. Katrina had been acting strangely. On drugs. _Oh_. The fiancé. Rather, the fake fiancé.

"I take it that Mr. Cesario has fled the estate," Sherlock looked to Mycroft.

"Mr. Moran, actually. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Jim Moriarty's favorite hit man."

"Did you catch him?"

"Sadly, no. We were able to track him for a few miles. But he's managed to disappear rather effectively."

Mycroft reached underneath his desk for something and plopped a stack of papers in front of Sherlock. The detective leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. It was a bit of a struggle to read. But it looked a lot like blood work.

"I had John take a sample from you shortly after the drug was administered," Mycroft said crisply.

Sherlock blinked in effort to focus. These results were definitely similar to what he'd found in the blood from the murder victim two days previously. Every narcotic known to man. But this time in much less concentrated doses. Not even enough to really affect him. "He's combined all the narcotics he can think of to mask something else?"

"It would appear so. There were a few unidentifiable chemical compounds in the blood as well. I'll have them sent to St. Bart's. Perhaps you can recreate them."

Sherlock nodded, then turned to John. "What were the effects of the drug? I know lethargy, impaired vision, and slowed cognitive function were all side effects. But that's just what I saw happen to Katrina."

John shifted in his seat uncomfortably for a moment, cheeks coloring slightly. "Well... um... you were rather suggestible."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock frowned.

"Like—you did anything that I said."

The words hit him and his blood ran cold. Oh god. He stared at John more intensely. But after the initial admission, the doctor didn't seem embarrassed. So he must not have done anything particularly reprehensible. What was he thinking? Of course John wouldn't. John had taken care of him all night.

But... if Moriarty had effectively manufactured a drug that would guarantee his submission... well that wasn't good news at all.

He glanced at Mycroft. His brother looked sufficiently grim. Perhaps he didn't know exactly what was going on. But he had more than enough information to correctly deduce the general idea.

The game had suddenly become a lot more dangerous. No longer an even match, if it ever was one to begin with. Moriarty's sing-song words echoed through Sherlock's head. _I don't play fair. You're going to feel so much. We're going to hurt each other so badly in the end._

Sherlock slid the papers off the desk, folded them, and placed them in his pocket. "Thank you," he nodded to Mycroft.

"Best of luck with trying to identify the compound. I'll have my labs working on it as well."

Sherlock nodded. But his head felt oddly foggy. Panic started to edge in at the corners of his consciousness. He wasn't in any condition to school his features into the usual mask of apathy. Perhaps the worry showed. Because John reached out and put a hand on his knee. It felt anchoring. Warm. Safe.

* * *

When they arrived back at 221B later that evening, Sherlock went straight to his room and closed the door. John thought it best not to bother him. At least for a little while. He'd been through a lot. God knows.

He didn't come out the next morning. John went grocery shopping and made lunch. Still no sign of the detective. He left a plate outside Sherlock's door and went on a long walk. When he returned, the plate was gone, but the door was still closed.

John spent the evening watching crap telly and drinking tea. It was soothing in its own way. He didn't spend so much time alone anymore. He'd rather gotten used to being at Sherlock's beck and call. Solving cases, or fucking, or eating take away far too late in the evening.

He went to bed at a reasonable hour.

Then several hours later, in the middle of the night, John woke with a start as the mattress sagged next to him. He could barely make out anything in the darkness. But then Sherlock was pressed up against him. He smelled the other man's shampoo and felt the distinctly angular lines of his body. The detective was freshly showered and entirely naked.

"When I was drugged, you didn't do anything sexual," Sherlock's voice was low and measured. Distinctly a statement, not a question. "You didn't even make me do anything embarrassing. You could have."

"Well… I suppose," John shrugged. "But why would I?"

"Revenge, perhaps. Sometimes I wonder if you feel that I've taken advantage of you."

John snorted. "If I didn't want everything we did, I would have left you a long time ago."

"You tried once and I didn't let you leave."

"I didn't actually want to go. Perhaps we're a bit fucked up. But well… I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock seemed to digest this for a moment. "I don't think I've ever been so vulnerable around another person as I was last night. At least, not in a very long time. Thank you. For not—well—you know."

"You're welcome."

Sherlock pressed a small kiss onto John's shoulder. Then another on his neck. And before the good doctor knew what was happening, Sherlock had rolled on top of him, and they were drowning in a languid kiss.

"I want you so badly," Sherlock panted, low and breathy. Dear god. John had gone from zero to aching for a good fuck in mere seconds.

Sherlock reached for the bedside drawer and opened it. No need to wonder what he was getting. John lavished a few biting kisses on Sherlock's neck while the taller man was otherwise occupied.

But then, instead of slipping a finger between John's arse cheeks—as would usually be the next step in things—Sherlock slid off of him entirely.

John's mind stuttered. Did Sherlock want to be ridden? No. Because Sherlock had ended up face down against the mattress and was pressing the tube of lubricant into John's hand.

What?

Oh god. Oh _yes_. The good doctor nearly had a heart attack at the mere thought of it. But Sherlock turned his head before John could get too excited.

"Don't actually put it in… just… I can't. But I thought maybe you could do something else…"

Sherlock's voice was not calm or steady. In fact, he sounded more than a bit nervous. Almost shaky. John ran his hand down the detective's back soothingly. For a moment, there was a pang in his stomach. He wondered what had happened to Sherlock to make him so afraid of this particular part of sex. Him even offering this was huge.

John slicked himself up liberally and just brushed his fingers between Sherlock's deliciously plump arse cheeks. The taller man shivered slightly. But John's hand didn't stray. Didn't push against his entrance. Just smeared the lube across his skin.

Sherlock tensed when John settled his weight on top of him. The doctor pressed a small kiss against Sherlock's shoulder blade and waited a few moments. Sherlock relaxed, somewhat.

John let his hands wander, squeezing at the wonderfully plush globes of flesh, before pressing the cheeks together to create a tight channel. He sat back, so the angle didn't have to be entirely awkward. Then slowly, carefully, he nudged his cock between the mounds of Sherlock's arse cheeks, sliding between them.

He bit his lip to avoid moaning. His mind was offering up all sorts of wonderfully dirty images. _You're so close. Almost inside him. You're fucking him._

Objectively, it was like that time in college he'd dated Nancy "Knockers" Johnson. She'd had huge tits, and a she'd let John slide his cock between them on more than one occasion.

But this was infinitely better. Just because it was _Sherlock _underneath him. Shuddering slightly. The picture of dominance and absolute invulnerability, letting John have this one thing. This moment of willingly transferred power.

John wanted to make it last. To appreciate every second of it. But god. He was so fucking close already. He had to start mentally listing off the symptoms of Dengue Fever to keep from coming.

He pressed in a little more roughly, so the head of his cock grazed against Sherlock's hole. The detective jolted and let out a small grunt.

"Sorry," John said breathlessly.

"No… it's… it's ok. As long as you don't go inside."

John repeated his previous motion, slipping through the channel he'd created, but taking extra effort to push against Sherlock's entrance. Not in. Just across it.

The detective let out a small, breathy "oh" and John grinned.

"Does it feel good?" He asked his voice a lot huskier than he intended.

Sherlock didn't respond. He just rocked his hips slightly. Rutting against the mattress. Sherlock wasn't the only one who could play dirty. John didn't earn the nickname "Three Continents Watson" for nothing. He knew a lot about pleasuring a partner. And Just because he mostly let Sherlock take the reins, it didn't mean he'd forgotten.

"Just think about what it would feel like," he barely whispered, dragging the head of his cock against Sherlock's fluttering hole, ever so slowly and gently. "To let me inside you. I'd love it if you were on top. Still in control. Fucking the hell out of me. Using me to get off. You could make yourself come and then tie me up. Tease me for _ages_ until you wanted to ride me again… but I'd also love to have you like this. Just lying there. You wouldn't have to do any work. I bet I could get you to come just with my tongue and fingers."

Sherlock let out a barely audible moan. Mostly muffled by the pillow. But John still heard it. That was the ticket.

He figured Sherlock wasn't so much opposed to the idea of being fucked. It was more a paranoia about being out of control. If he could just get Sherlock to _see_ that he could still be in charge no matter what they were doing, well, he might get what he really wanted.

God. Hanging out with a manipulative genius sociopath was rubbing off on him in all the wrong ways, wasn't it?

Well. Perhaps a taste of his own medicine might do Sherlock some good.

"You could sit on my face," John licked a stripe up Sherlock's spine. "I'd eat your arse out until you were quaking and then you could shove your cock in my mouth and throat fuck me like the bloody lunatic you are."

Sherlock bucked up against John's cock ever so slightly. Perhaps he didn't even mean to. But he no longer seemed to be trying to hide the fact that he was rubbing up against the sheets—seeking out the friction he so desperately wanted.

"Let me, Sherlock," John groaned, "can I please lick you there?"

Wait. Wait, what had he just said? God damn it. So much for a carefully planned seduction. And well… that was a thing he didn't even know he'd wanted until he just said it.

But god.

Sherlock had stopped moving. He was panting like the room had suddenly run out of oxygen.

"Yes," the reply came out choked off, and muddled.

John nearly came on the spot. He took a few moments to collect himself. But then he sat back, crawling further down the mattress so his face was level with the intended target.

He slowly spread Sherlock's cheeks apart. He almost wished there was more light in the room so he could see better. But then again, perhaps this way was best. He'd never done this before. It was probably better if he didn't think about it too thoroughly.

He took a moment to be thankful that they were in his bedroom, and he knew which lube was in the drawer. The doctor in him was paranoid about reading labels and this one had been "digestible," just in case. It wouldn't necessarily taste good. But it wouldn't kill him.

John flicked his tongue out and touched against the puckered little ring of muscle. Sherlock's entire body jerked.

The industrial taste of the lube left much to be desired. But John wasn't one to be easily dissuaded once he'd started something. He repeated his previous motion, slowly dragging the tip of his tongue over the tight little hole.

"Oh _fuck_," Sherlock shuddered.

John smiled. There were few things he enjoyed more than eating a woman out. Slowly breaking her down and taking her apart until she was a writhing, dripping mess. Really, this wasn't so much different in theory.

What would Sherlock look like? Moaning, sweating, squirming, _begging_ to be fucked? John could barely even picture it. But he was dead set on finding out.

* * *

Sherlock's head was spinning. His veins pounding with adrenaline and dopamine. His body couldn't seem to decide whether he was terrified or insanely aroused. Not that it mattered. They both often read the same way.

And he still didn't feel like he was functioning quite normally.

How could he when John's wonderful tongue was brushing against him in soft, slow, insistent motions? Bastard. Amazing, sexy, infuriating bastard.

Sherlock's skin felt too warm. He was sweating, as his blood rushed around eagerly. His cock was far too erect. It ached. He couldn't think properly.

He'd done this for a few people over the years. He didn't mind giving pleasure. But he hadn't been on the receiving end since college. God, he'd forgotten.

John stiffened his tongue and teased, just flirted with the idea of dipping inside Sherlock's hole, before circling it again in a wide sweeping motion. The detective let out a small whimper.

The good doctor began pressing a few chaste kisses on the tender skin surrounding Sherlock's entrance. It made it so much worse. Sherlock could hardly breathe.

When John grabbed a hold of Sherlock's hips and pulled him back, Sherlock didn't think about protesting. He just followed John's motion, until he was propped unsteadily on his hands and knees. His trembling hadn't been quite so obvious when he was laying down. But he felt even more exposed now that he was on all fours.

John paused, taking a moment to run his hands over the skin on Sherlock's back and thighs, before his fingers migrated down. First stroking down Sherlock's abdomen, then settling, one hand wrapping around the detective's prick.

_Fuck._

It was almost too much. And then it was _more_. Because John started to stroke Sherlock's cock in slow, certain motions. Then the doctor's tongue touched against Sherlock's arsehole again. Sherlock nearly fainted.

Overwhelmed. Entirely. Too much to process.

Sherlock realized too late that his mouth was open and he'd let out a series of noises that he definitely couldn't take back. His entire body was pulsing. Skin tingling.

He was teetering on the edge, but John wasn't giving him quite enough to go over. The good doctor's every motion contributed to the tension. The dull, throbbing ache that never quite swelled into something tangible.

"John," Sherlock could barely get the words out, "_please."_

The good doctor moaned against him. Sped up. Grasped Sherlock's prick a bit more firmly. Forward motion with a purpose.

The sensation built deep within Sherlock's core. The mounting tidal wave. Huge. Unstoppable. Crashing. Rhythmic spasms. Sharp, near painful pleasure. Sherlock's cock jerked, spilling his come onto the sheets beneath him.

He couldn't stay upright anymore. So he collapsed into the stickiness.

John went down with him. Pressed his arse cheeks together again and resumed his previous activity. Rutting feverishly. It was an odd sensation. Not necessarily unpleasant. Sherlock could feel the desperation in John's rapid thrusts. The desire. The elation. He was utterly spent. Too spent to think.

But there was an odd warm feeling lingering in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps post-orgasmic haze. Maybe something else.

John went still and let out a few choice curse words. Then Sherlock felt the hot, viscous wetness dribbling across his lower back. John lay there on top of him for a few minutes before rolling off, breathing raggedly.

The room was quiet. John's window faced the alley. And it was early enough in the morning that the sounds of London traffic weren't yet leaking into the flat. Sherlock liked the late night and early morning, because of the solitude. The sense of being the only one awake in the world. The serenity and calm.

But right then, he didn't mind that John was with him—that they were sharing the same air and the same bed. The quiet world of the early hours could comfortably fit two instead of one.

"That was intense," John sighed. A satisfied, relaxed little sound.

"Yes… it was," Sherlock nodded, even though he doubted John could see him.

"Are you all right?" He felt John's weight shift on the mattress. Perhaps angling towards him to try to see though the dark.

"A fair shade better than all right, I'd imagine," Sherlock tried to sound as content as John.

In truth, he felt a bit raw. It wasn't a painful feeling. Perhaps comparable to physical exhaustion. But it was in his mind, rather than his muscle.

He still hadn't quite processed what had just happened. Let alone everything else that had happened in the past few days. More than anything, he wanted some time to just sit, and categorize everything. To think undisturbed. To just rest. It was an odd feeling. Usually he didn't want to sleep. But right then, nothing sounded more appealing than a long period of blissful unconsciousness.

John reached out through the dark and gently ran his hand down Sherlock's arm. The gesture was oddly comforting. Perhaps it helped release a small portion of the tension Sherlock never knew he was holding.

"Go on, love," John said softly, "go to sleep."

Sherlock snorted. But he closed his eyes. And he slipped away into the dark within minutes.

* * *

_Well then. I suppose it's business time._

_Your reviews, follows and favorites make me want to SHOUT, kick my heels up and SHOUT, throw my hands up and SHOUT, throw my head back and SHOUT. Dear god. I'm typing the lyrics to Little Richard songs. You see the state I'm in. But please. Do open a tab and listen to that song if the mood strikes._

_Sorry I've been so bad about responding to reviews this week! I have no real excuse. Except I met a few prompts on kink meme... and we've been having filthy sex... and it's made my usual scatter-brained life even more disorganized. This week, I will respond with double the admiration and gratitude (because OMG guys. I don't say that I love you nearly enough)._

_I'm in process of going back and fixing some problems that have been pointed out to me. I should have previous chapters more fully edited over the week, if that's a thing you care about._

_As always, tune in next Wednesday for more smut. I'm sure exciting things will happen._


	18. Highlights and Shadows

_Fair warning: I ACTUALLY HAVE NO WARNINGS. WHAT IS LIFE? I'll just give you a compliment instead. You look nice today. Enjoy the porn ;)_

* * *

John woke up to the smell of cigarette smoke. He barely repressed a cough as he opened his eyes blearily. Sherlock had the window open. He was completely naked, leaning on the windowsill. And John really found it difficult to be cross about the smell when presented with such a beautiful image first thing in the morning.

Sherlock's hair was still messy and rather smashed down on one side. The dim light streaming in the window created a multitude of intriguing highlights and shadows on his angular body.

He stared off into space in a way that was familiar—but also slightly different. He looked otherworldly. Untouchable.

Except, he'd let John touch him.

Just the thought sent an odd shock of warmth through the doctor's body. He rolled onto his side. He simply watched as Sherlock finished the cigarette and flicked the stub into the alley below.

"All right?" John asked quietly.

"Yes, just thinking." Sherlock replied dismissively.

"About?"

"The chemical. Perhaps I'll go to St. Bart's today. I've thought up some tests I'd like to run on the blood sample we froze from the other body."

"It's early though, isn't it?"

"About twenty minutes after sunrise."

"You should come back to sleep."

Sherlock let out a sigh that bordered on wistful. But he did walk back to the bed and sprawl out on his back.

John felt himself starting to drift off again. Sherlock shifted around on the mattress slightly, causing little shockwaves of motion on the springs.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I think… well things are getting progressively more dangerous. You should start carrying your gun around with you. At all times."

"Really?" Usually he only brought his gun along when they were pursuing a criminal.

"Moriarty has promised to leave you alone, but he's not exactly the most trustworthy person. I'd feel better if you were armed."

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked softly. "I know there are things you haven't told me. But, if you're in danger, maybe I could help protect you—"

"You can't," Sherlock said flatly. "Besides. That would defeat the point. I want to keep _you _safe, John. Moriarty views you as disposable. Even as something of a roadblock. He wants to keep me alive, at least for now. I'm certain of that much."

"For now? That's not bloody good enough."

"All I'm saying is that we need to be careful. I'm sure Mycroft has upped security around the flat. But when we leave, it's just… well it will be important to pay attention to your surroundings and be prepared to defend yourself."

John digested that for a moment. Sherlock wasn't usually one for taking precautions, or showing concern. But he sounded serious. Part of John wanted to ask if they were in too deep. If they were going to both come out at the other end of whatever game Sherlock and Moriarty were playing.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know. And even if he did know, what could he do about it? Try to keep Sherlock from ever leaving the flat again? No doubt Moriarty would find a way to hurt them. No matter what they did.

Not for the first time, he allowed himself a small moment of fantasy. Pulling the trigger and putting a bullet right between Moriarty's eyes. Quick, painless, better than the bastard deserved. But what it would be like… to just get rid of him?

As long as Moriarty continued to exist, Sherlock was in danger. And if they both made it through this game, then what about the next one? The one after that? All John could foresee was an endless play of cat and mouse. He didn't like it one bit.

"You're thinking too hard, stop it." Sherlock reached over and brushed the hair back off of John's forehead. "You were about to fall asleep before I interrupted you. Go on. You're still tired."

"Well I'm not exactly _sleepy _now," John grumbled.

"Shall I help you get off? You're always sleepy after orgasm."

Sherlock offered it in such an off-handed way. It made John's brain stumble. Hadn't they just been talking about life and death?

"That's ok," John replied after a minute, "you don't have to."

Sherlock rolled closer to him on the bed until they were touching. Just barely wrapped around each other. The taller man ran his fingers down John's chest, tracing aimless patterns onto his skin.

"Certainly… but perhaps I _want_ to."

John's cock twitched just at the sound, the weight, of Sherlock's words. And well, when the detective's hand started to wander lower, John's prick began to fill out.

"What would you like, John?" Sherlock rumbled. "My hands? My mouth? My cock inside you?"

Dear god.

All lovely options. But John's body was still groaning in protest at being awake. He didn't really feel capable of much motion. Let alone making such a decision.

Sherlock pressed a small kiss into his neck.

"Just relax, John. I'll take care of it for you."

And with that the detective snaked his hand down the rest of the way, wrapping it lazily around John's cock. He began to stroke it in long, slow motions, focusing most of the pressure around the head.

John groaned and melted into the mattress.

It was a strange dichotomy—to feel so utterly and completely relaxed, and so on edge at the same time. Sherlock's every motion simply teased the fire that licked across John's skin, making him feel overly warm. More tightly coiled with each passing moment.

John reached out blindly, running the back of his hand down Sherlock's taught abdomen, until he nudged against the slick head of the detective's erection. He wrapped his hand loosely around it, beginning to stroke Sherlock in mirror motions.

The taller man let out a small groan.

Sleepy morning sex. It had always been one of John's favorite parts about being in a relationship—waking up next to someone and making love to them. Sometimes Sherlock liked a slow burn, if it was about working John up and then denying him what he wanted. Drawing it out for the sake of power.

But they rarely took their time for its own sake.

Lying there, lazily stroking each other, felt entirely perfect. All the heat, and nearly none of the urgency.

The pressure began to build slowly. John wanted to touch more of Sherlock's skin. To be fully pressed against him. It was a simple motion, to roll on top of Sherlock. And god, it was so much better. Hands wandered—tracing across skin, tangling in hair—and John began to rut against Sherlock, rubbing their cocks together slowly.

He pressed a kiss against Sherlock's soft lips. The man tasted like an ashtray, and John doubted he tasted a whole lot better. He could care less. John kissed Sherlock slow, long, and deep. Their tongues tangled together without specific purpose.

The world was a mesh of warmth and sensation.

John let himself drown in it.

* * *

Sherlock had meant to just give John a quick hand job so that he'd go back to sleep. He'd wanted time to think. To focus on the monstrous puzzle Moriarty had laid out of him.

But John could be ever so distracting when he had the mind for it. It felt oddly good to have the doctor's weight on top of him. Skin sliding against sweaty skin.

"You're amazing," John mumbled into the skin on Sherlock's neck. "God, you're amazing."

And the doctor's motions became a bit more focused. Less aimless contact. The goal became clear when John trust right against the bundle of nerves right under the head of Sherlock's cock. The detective let out a small noise.

Up to that point he'd only lay there to be indulgent—to watch the tiny changes in John's facial expression as he enjoyed himself.

But _that_ particular motion felt quite nice. And Sherlock's rapidly gained more interest in the proceedings.

He let his hands wander down to grab two handfuls of John arse cheeks. He squeezed, pulling John a bit closer. John continued to rub against him, for the most part hitting the same target.

Sherlock nipped at the side of the smaller man's neck and started to suck a dark purple bruise. John shuddered and moaned.

The detective reached out for the tube of lubricant that they'd left on the bedside table the previous evening. Then he wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and flipped them both over, so the good doctor was on his back.

Sherlock grinned as he kissed his way down John's body, purposefully avoiding his cock. He sat back on his heels and squeezed out the lube. John's breath hitched. Sherlock had his complete attention. It was a nice feeling—to be the focal point of John's universe.

He slowly stroked a slick finger between John's arse cheeks. Not quite pushing inside. Just tracing across his entrance. John shuddered slightly. His skin was so warm. Flushed with arousal. Sherlock kissed the top of John's knee, then slowly pushed inside him.

Slow and steady, he brushed against John's prostate. Just one finger. No rush. They had all the time in the world, and Sherlock fully intended to savor it.

Soon, John let out a few noises that seemed to reflect a mix of frustration and pleasure. He squirmed. Sherlock kept his motion mechanically steady. Sometimes it was about raw passion, the heat of the moment, frantic fucking and breathless climax. Other times, if you teased with not quite enough, for a very long time, it would send somebody careening over the edge just the same.

"Sherlock," John breathed, "fuck me."

The detective smiled, "what do you think I'm doing right now?"

John groaned. Sherlock relented slightly and added another finger. He bit his lip and watched John writhe about. He noted every muscle group that tensed and relaxed, and the thin sheen of sweat the developed across the good doctor's forehead.

He didn't think he'd ever get tired of cataloguing every bit of information he discovered about John. Perhaps he'd long since passed the point of discovering anything surprising about the other man. But it was in the nuance. The tiny changes.

And every so often, in a moment of inspiration, he would think of something new to try on John. He'd never fingered the good doctor to completion before. Right then seemed like an excellent time to experiment and file away the results.

The tension started to build. He could sense it. John made some choice noises that could be described as nothing other than frantic. His breathing was nearly ragged. Sherlock felt the temptation to change what he was doing—the impulse to give John _more_. But he resisted.

"_Jesus_," John whimpered.

His hands tangled in the sheets. Trying to hold on as the world slipped away around him. Sherlock kept pace. Biting down on his lip. His own erection throbbed, angry about being ignored. Demanding to know why it wasn't deep inside the warmth of John's body.

But rubbing against John's engorged prostate with the pads of his fingers was almost as good. Sherlock was completely transfixed. He watched John struggle, approach the edge. But it seemed he couldn't quite tip over it.

"Go on, John," Sherlock said, soothing and low, "it's all right. Just let go."

John let out a series of low, rapid moans. Then his muscles clenched down around Sherlock's fingers. His cock jerked, painting tiny ribbons of ejaculate across his stomach.

"Holy fuck," John groaned. He sounded shattered. Exhausted. Sated. Sherlock smiled.

The good doctor took a moment to collect himself. But then he sat up. He grabbed ahold of Sherlock's hips and tugged him forward. Sherlock was on his knees, John sitting on front of him, putting the detective's cock right at the level of John's mouth. John parted his lips and Sherlock slid into the wet heat. He tangled his fingers in John's short blonde hair.

He didn't last very long. Watching John's orgasm had been quite erotic. He just lost himself in the sensation of John's tongue swirling around his cock.

The fire burned deep in Sherlock's abdomen. He bit down on his lip and groaned. John hollowed his cheeks and sucked just a little bit harder. The pleasure ripped through him as he emptied himself down John's throat. The good doctor swallowed it all.

They both collapsed back onto the bed. John chuckled, reaching down and grabbing a hold of a t-shirt to wipe some of the stickiness of himself. Then he settled back. Sherlock pulled him into a loose embrace and the good doctor was asleep within minutes. Sherlock simply lay there, entangled with him, and a strange weight settled onto him.

It was a vaguely familiar feeling. Perhaps the precursor to panic. But perhaps something else. It made him want to cling to the warm body next to him and never let go. He felt flighty. Disoriented. He ached in an entirely abstract way. Not a physical pain. But a strange, twisting sensation in his rib cage.

His mind raced trying to place it.

Fluttering. Longing. Desperate to be close to somebody that he was already pressed up against.

Butterflies in his stomach, brushing against the internal walls of his skin, making him anxious and giddy.

_Fuck_.

How had he let this happen? When had it happened? He… cared for John, certainly. John was his best friend. One of the only people in his life that wasn't entirely useless.

But _this_ was never supposed to happen, ever again.

He felt exactly the same way as he had so many years ago. The first time he'd kissed Anthony. Hopelessly infatuated.

Falling.

Maybe this was just a physical reaction. After all, he spent an awful lot of time touching John. Releasing oxytocin—the neurotransmitter that bred feelings of attachment. But he wasn't just attached. No. That had happened before. John was _his_ and nobody else's.

The change, at its root, seemed to be that he wanted more than anything to belong to John as well. Wanted to grow old with him. Make him tea in the morning. Give him pleasure for no reason, with no need for reciprocation.

_Damn it_.

Maybe this had been happening the whole time. But he'd let John take control and John didn't abuse it. No. John had been wonderful. Amazing. And if Sherlock had to trust one person on earth with his well-disguised fragility… there couldn't be a better choice than John.

It was almost safe. As safe as such an endeavor could possibly be. But it still made Sherlock so very nervous.

Perhaps if he ignored it, the feeling would fade.

But he didn't want it to. He wanted to capture this moment in a jar and keep it forever.

_This is what love feels like. Enjoy it. Savor it. And for god's sake, let nobody know about it. Because there are a lot of people that want to hurt you. Take things away from you. And if they took John away, you'd just die._

* * *

When John woke up, Sherlock was no longer in bed. Probably off to the lab. John yawned and stretched, reveling in how hazy he still felt. He allowed himself to luxuriate, sprawled across the sheets for a few minutes before he got up and threw on a dressing gown.

He made his way downstairs for a cup of tea, and perhaps a shower. Sherlock was sprawled across the couch, staring at the ceiling, wearing one of John's sheets. The doctor suppressed a small chuckle. By Sherlock's standards, wearing somebody else's bed sheets and still being in the flat when there was science to be done bordered on sickeningly domestic.

"Hungry?" John called back to the living room as he set out a pan and began rummaging through the refrigerator for anything that could be considered edible.

Sherlock did not reply.

But John went ahead and started frying eggs for two. It was always a toss up. If he set a plate in front of Sherlock, it would often go untouched. However, if he made himself food without preparing any extra, Sherlock would huff and puff about it.

It struck him that he used to find Sherlock's childish whims to be a lot more annoying. But these days, he'd simply adjusted. He hardly batted an eye at any of it.

Was that a good thing, or a bad one?

He shrugged, and cracked an egg against the side of the cast iron skillet. The viscous liquid splattered as it hit the oil. John threw a dash of salt and pepper on as the egg rapidly heated. He cracked three more. They all sizzled merrily. John let them cook for a good long while. If the yolk was still gooey, Sherlock would turn his nose up at it.

Sherlock liked his tea with sugar and a splash of cream. His toast with butter and a bit of orange marmalade. He liked grilled tomatoes, but hated mushrooms. He'd only eat beans and toast on cloudy days.

By and large, John knew far too much about the man's picky eating habits.

But all the same, when he walked into the living room and set down a plate with two eggs, two pieces of toast, and a cup of tea exactly the way Sherlock liked it—he felt somewhat gratified that the detective sat up and began to nibble.

They sat in peaceful silence. John nipped downstairs to get the paper then settled back into his chair, sipped his tea, and scanned aimlessly. After finishing his food, Sherlock resumed his sprawl across the couch. Fingertips pressed together under his chin.

John hardly noticed the time passing. He had nowhere pressing to be. After he finished with the paper he got out his computer and started typing away. Just random thoughts. He wasn't sure how comfortable Sherlock would feel about him putting non case-related things on the blog. But just for himself, he summarized what had happened at the Holmes Estate.

He was halfway through describing Mr. Moran when his mobile chimed.

**Hey, Watson. It's Allen Pike. A few of the boys are in town this week. Fancy grabbing a pint?**

A slow smile spread across his face. He'd met Pike in basic training. Another soldier. Another doctor. After his discharge, he'd moved to Germany. John didn't know if he'd ever hear from him again.

**Hey! When did you even get back in the country?**

**Just yesterday. Not here long. But I've called up everyone I can think of for a pub-crawl tomorrow evening. It'll be just like the old times, eh?**

**You can count me in. Where are you meeting?**

**Probably at the Lanesborough. That's where Max is staying. We'll say 20:00?**

**I'll see you then.**

"Who are you talking to?" Sherlock's voice drifted quietly.

"An old army mate's in town. He wanted to grab a pint tomorrow," John tucked his mobile back into his pocket.

"Oh."

John waited. But Sherlock didn't seem like he was going to offer any further comment. He resumed typing. The silence held for an indeterminate amount of time.

"You should be careful." Sherlock was still sprawled, staring at the ceiling when John looked over at him. His expression hadn't changed, but he somehow seemed more tense.

"Yeah, all right."

"You're quite set on going?"

John frowned, "yeah. He's my friend. I don't know when I'll get to see him again."

Sherlock shifted on the couch slightly, but didn't say anything. He just stuck a nicotine patch on his arm and continued to lie there for the better part of the morning. Eventually, he got up and John heard the shower running. Sherlock emerged fully dressed, and as put together as ever.

As he walked through the living room, towards the door, he stopped and kissed John on the top of the head. The doctor looked up and smiled.

"Off to Barts?"

Sherlock nodded vaguely, looking off towards some unfocused point in the distance. "I'll probably be back late."

"Well, I'll see you later then."

Sherlock disappeared down the stairs. Perhaps a few minutes passed before John's phone chimed.

**Thank you for breakfast - SH**

John stared for a full minute before he understood what he was seeing. Sherlock never thanked people for anything. Let alone something as inconsequential as eggs and toast.

**You're welcome.**

Something had shifted. That much was certain. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't good with feelings. But John had gotten much better at reading between the lines. He let the light, giddy feeling wash through him.

Maybe it wasn't love exactly. He didn't know if Sherlock was capable of that.

But the man did _care_. At least to some degree. And that was more than enough for John.

* * *

Sherlock had always enjoyed chemistry. It held a certain tranquility that was hard to come across in other facets of life. But he'd been sitting, bent over a microscope for no less than five hours, monitoring different reactions, and he was still no closer to figuring out what insane chemical compound Moriarty had created.

Perhaps Moriarty hadn't made it himself. Sherlock really didn't like the idea of his arch nemesis being a better scientist than he was. But perhaps he'd paid somebody off. Found another _proper_ genius to mix him up the most confusing compound in the universe.

It reacted with everything, because it seemed to contain everything. It didn't make any sense. Because surely just mixing together a bunch of different narcotics couldn't produce the obvious effects of the drug. He'd felt… well he couldn't remember what he'd felt… there was just a large blank space.

He didn't have enough data to draw a conclusion. And it was driving him up the wall.

His phone chimed. He nearly threw it across the room.

**How's your head, darling? Did we enjoy our little free sample? - JM**

Free sample. Sherlock's mind raced.

**So may I expect your drug to be hitting the black market soon? - SH**

**Oh no. That would be boring. Why would I want to give away the world to the highest bidder when I can destroy it all by myself? - JM**

Sherlock let out a groan of frustration. Playing this game with Jim seemed to be far more similar to rolling dice than moving chess pieces. Jim's movements didn't make any sense. Was he trying to threaten Mycroft with this drug that could obviously allow him to take over full countries if he found a way of getting it into the water supply? Was he trying to break Sherlock into tiny pieces just to show that he could?

But he'd demonstrated that he could end the game any time he wanted. He could force Sherlock to do anything. It wouldn't matter. So why hadn't he? What was he waiting for?

What did he _want?_

**Cat got your tongue? Do you need a hint? Hmmm? - JM**

Sherlock let out a long sigh. He still didn't feel quite right. He had no idea how long the drug would stay in his system, but he still felt a bit sluggish. His mind wasn't operating quite as quickly as it normally did. And it was quite a bad time to be operating at less than peak performance.

Because things would undoubtedly come to a head rather soon.

He pictured a map of London. Marked off all the places where the bodies had been found. Drew lines between them. No discernable pattern. No sequence. Random streets. No rhyme or reason.

This whole thing was ridiculous.

**What happens if I just stop playing? - SH**

**Obvious. John dies. You already knew that - JM**

**But why do you need me to play? You have all the cards - SH**

**Not ALL the cards, darling I don't have you quite yet - JM**

Hmm. So Jim did need Sherlock for _something_. He couldn't care that much whether or not Sherlock came of his own free will. Why didn't he just kidnap Sherlock and use the drug on him? It wouldn't be difficult.

And Jim was taking _risks_. He'd snuck his favorite assassin into the estate to get Sherlock the drug. That had to be purposeful. Moriarty never did anything by accident. He had no doubt Mr. Moran could have subdued him other ways. So… somehow Sherlock was an integral part of the larger puzzle.

Sherlock closed his eyes and visualized the sprawling halls of his mind. He raced by doorways, trying to collect every bit of information he had about the problem. Step by step.

_1_._ Moriarty is operating a drug smuggling ring_

_2. Moriarty is killing off his dealers, and leaving them places to be found (along with teddy bears?)_

_3. The last body was placed in a replica of Sherlock's nursery (could be valid information, or just a clue for where to find Moran later)_

_4. Moriarty snuck Mr. Moran into the estate to demonstrate the power of his drug on cousin Katrina, and to leave Sherlock a fresh blood sample (by way of administering it directly)_

_5. The drug's chemical compound is confusing and near indecipherable, because it's masked it with a myriad of other narcotics._

_6. Moriarty had no discernable reason to be playing this game_

_7. Moriarty does not plan to distribute the drug on the black market (if his word can be trusted, which it probably can't be)_

_8. He needs Sherlock for something_

Sherlock's mind swirled. He reexamined his list. Common factors: drugs, nursery imagery, trail of dead bodies, giving Sherlock "samples" and demonstrations. Bodies arranged in a random order.

Wait.

Sherlock visualized the map of London again. Perhaps… the street names? Cliché. Obvious. Just obvious enough that he hadn't thought of it before. Fifteen bodies.

_Broadstone Place._

_Randolph Road._

_York Hill._

_Ashley Drive._

_Norwich Street._

_Strafford Road._

_Treadway Street._

_Odhams Walk._

_Nelson Street._

_Sandhurst Road._

_Quinton Street._

_Usher Road._

_Ashbourne Road._

_Radcliffe Way._

_Epirus Road._

**B.R.Y.A.N.S.T.O.N. S.Q.U.A.R.E.**

Sherlock walked through the park there quite often. He'd noticed the empty building once or twice. It used to be a nursery school, but it had shut down a few months ago. He'd seen the for sale sign. But he hadn't realized…

Just like Moriarty. To set up his headquarters within spitting distance of Sherlock's flat. It was pompous. Showy. Brilliant. The last place anybody would be looking.

**Bryanston Square. Have you bought the building that used to be a nursery school? - SH**

**Ah, clever boy. So clever. I knew you'd get there eventually. We'll be expecting you - JM**

**Why not expect my brother instead? - SH**

**Because you know better than to get him involved. He wouldn't anyway. Too many lives at stake for him to intervene - JM**

**You're threatened to disperse the drug if he interferes - SH**

**I'd tell you how brilliant you are, but I wouldn't want it to go to your head - JM**

Sherlock was trapped, or so it would seem. He waited.

**I'd say you should come by right now, in time for tea, but because I have a wonderful sense of sportsmanship, I'll give you 48 hours to get your affairs in order- JM**

**You'll be killing me, then? - SH**

**If I wanted to do that, you'd be dead already. No. I want a new puppy. Sebastian's cute and all, but he's nowhere near as much fun as you - JM**

But that didn't make sense. Why give him _time_ to prepare himself? What if Sherlock figured out the chemical compound by then and thought up an antidote?

Perhaps Moriarty was too confident. Perhaps he thought Sherlock wouldn't be able to figure it out. But why play with fire like that? Was he really such an adrenaline junkie?

Sherlock rubbed his temples. If he'd been in his right mind, he would have solved this already. But he had time. Hopefully enough of it.

* * *

_Yep. Yep. Things are happening. This week I had a plot epiphany and realized that we're about five chapters away from the end of this thing. I want to squeal with joy and sorrow._

_Also, sorry if I've embarrassed myself with a lack of practical knowledge about streets in London. I spent a good hour on google maps just for that section. So do let me know if I got something wrong. I invented the abandoned nursery building, I think. But you know._

_Your reviews, follows, and favorites are so beautifully wonderful. The FEELS, guys! I love hearing from you every week. I just. Egh. I didn't know it was possible to have so many emotions for people I've never actually met before..._

_Because I've realized that this fic can't actually go on forever, and I'll be lost without you wonderful people, I've made a list of reasons why you should follow me on Tumblr._

_1. I am an attention whore. Followers make me happy. And when I'm happy, my porn just gets that much pornier._

_2. You will receive updates about in-progress and possible future stories. You will even get to have some input on what I write next._

_3. Did you know I played music? On Friday, I'm going to post a recording of me covering "staying alive." Also, I've written songs to go along with this fic and they'll slowly be going up._

_4. I will be posting a series of smut writing tips, for anybody that's interested _

_So if you go to taylorpotato . tumblr .com (without the spaces), you will earn my undying affection._

_Tune in next Wednesday. For things! And plot! And sexy sex!_

_xoxo_


	19. The Bridge in a Minor Key

_Fair warning: this is me holding your hand. This is me patting you gently and telling you that everything will be ok. This is me acknowledging that I'm about to make you angry. But it's for the good of the story. I promise. That being said... um... I don't know what to warn you for. Massive angst? God. That sounds bad. Just read it. And like I said. It will be ok. Even if it doesn't seem ok right now. I'm a romantic at heart. I think. I'll stop rambling and let you get on to the story._

* * *

John began to worry when Sherlock didn't answer his first three texts. He hadn't come home the previous night. He'd said that he would be home late, but he didn't say that he wouldn't be home _at all_.

To be fair, when there was a case, Sherlock often wouldn't sleep for days on end. Perhaps he wasn't aware of the time. Perhaps he was still at St. Bart's, running tests. It was still fairly early in the morning. But as John put the kettle on, he couldn't suppress the nervous squirm in his stomach.

He sent another text.

**Are you all right? Should I come by the lab?**

No reply came as John poured milk into his tea. His phone stayed silent as he made toast, sat down, and tried to eat it.

He only took a few bites before he went back upstairs to dress himself. He tucked his Sig carefully into his coat.

He was out the door and hailing a cab before he really had time to think about. The entire way to St. Bart's, all he could do was worry about what would happen if he didn't find Sherlock in the lab. What if he'd been kidnapped? Worse still, what if he'd gone to face Moriarty by himself? It wouldn't be the first time. By the pool, he'd meant to go see Moriarty alone. Really, John's presence was Moriaty's design. If Sherlock had his way, it would have just been the two of them.

John hopped out of the cab in front of the hospital and rushed inside the building. He took a familiar pattern of turns, bringing him to the lab that Sherlock usually frequented. He pushed the door open, and to his great relief, the detective was in clear view.

Sherlock sat on a stool, looking into a microscope. His hair was slightly ruffled, as if he'd been running his fingers through it. He looked tired. Ragged. He'd definitely stayed up all night. His clothes were wrinkled, and he slouched a bit more than usual.

John approached, coming up behind the other man and laying a hand gently on his shoulder.

Sherlock jumped. He raised his head for a moment to establish who was touching him before lowering his eye back to the microscope.

"All right?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, "I said I'd be home late."

"It's not late anymore, Sherlock. It's nearly nine o'clock in the morning."

"Oh," the detective said flatly, "sorry. Should I have texted?"

"Might have been nice," John let out a small sigh and sank down onto a lab stool next to the other man. "Have you made any progress?"

"Yes and no."

"What does that mean?"

"Well… I've found out a lot of things that the compound _isn't_," he murmured.

"I suppose that's a start. Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Thirsty?"

"No."

"Anything I can do?"

"Not immediately."

"Well, it's nice to know you're still alive. I suppose I'll be going, then." John tried not to sound too neglected. Too needy. After all, there was a nice little breakfast place just down the road. He could go get a proper fry up. Perhaps even bring something back.

Not that Sherlock would eat. But it might make him feel a bit less useless.

But as he began to stand up, Sherlock reached over and grasped his hand. He squeezed, wrapping his long fingers around John's palm.

"I don't have very long to work this out." He continued to gaze down at the microscope.

"What do you mean?" John squeezed his hand back and stayed seated.

"Moriarty expects an answer, and if I don't give him one, there are going to be problems. He might hurt you, or me. Or the whole damn city…" Sherlock trailed off.

"Well… what exactly does he want an answer to?"

"That's half the problem. He hasn't told me."

"So he wants the question and the answer," John snorted.

"Precisely. It's a bit of a mess. But not as messy as this god damned chemical," Sherlock growled.

"Sounds to me like he has no bloody idea what he wants, and he's trying to get _you_ to figure it out for him," John muttered.

Sherlock went still. "Say that again."

"Moriarty doesn't know what he wants and he's trying to get you to figure it out for him…" John said apprehensively.

Sherlock all but jumped out of his chair. "John… John, that's it! Oh god. That's fucking brilliant!"

"What now—"

Sherlock swiveled on the stool abruptly and grasped the sides of John's face. "He doesn't know. He doesn't know! That's why he hasn't ended the game. Because he _can't_. He needs me to figure it out for him."

John blinked, still more than a bit unsure about what conversation they were having. But Sherlock stood abruptly and began pacing, fingertips pressed together underneath his chin.

"Oh…" he said breathlessly, "but it is a gamble, isn't it? It's hard to say with him… but if he already had a steady supply of the drug, he would have made his move. He wouldn't _need _me for anything. He's not a chemist. He's an organizer… but then, he must have other people working on it… but perhaps not… who else could he trust with something like this? God. It's perfect."

Sherlock looked more than a bit manic. John didn't know whether to be concerned or relieved. At least Sherlock wasn't sulking. That had to be a good sign. He was excited.

"He's given me time to figure the compound out," Sherlock barely whispered. "It must be. The samples. All the posturing with no follow though… he almost had me…. but… what's to be done?" He bit down on his lip.

"Care to explain what just happened?" John asked, not certain Sherlock had even heard him.

Sherlock continued to pace and mumble to himself. John heard the occasional word. Chemist. Brilliant. Drug cartel. Really, he probably should have been able to ascertain what Sherlock was on about. Perhaps if he'd gotten a proper night's sleep, and hadn't been up sick with worry…

"Hand me my phone," the detective said abruptly.

John reached out for Sherlock's mobile, where it sat on the table, and handed it to the other man carefully. Sherlock began to text at a feverish pace. John waited patiently, figuring he'd be clued in at one point or another.

Sherlock continued to walk around the room for another few minutes, his phone chimed numerous times while he looked more and more giddy. John's head began to swim, trying to watch him walk in such tight circles, so he eventually just propped an elbow on the table and waited.

And then, suddenly, Sherlock stood directly in front of him. John looked up, opening his mouth to say something—but the words on the tip of his tongue disappeared when Sherlock bent down and mashed their lips together.

"You're fucking fantastic," Sherlock murmured in between rapid kisses. "You're so bloody clever."

John didn't know exactly what he'd done to merit such praise. Obviously Sherlock had figured out something very important.

And it seemed like he was in the mood to celebrate.

The taller man grabbed a hold of John's hands and pulled him to his feet. Then he backed John up against the edge of the counter, never breaking his string of demanding kisses. Sherlock grasped the front lapels of John's coat and slowly slid it off the smaller man's shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He pulled at the bottom of John's jumper, sliding it upwards, exposing a band of skin above the waist of his trousers. Sherlock slid his hands underneath John's clothing, touching, caressing. Really, the doctor shouldn't feel quite so intoxicated as he did in that particular moment.

It didn't quite register when Sherlock unbuckled John's belt. But the doctor began to catch on when Sherlock unzipped his trousers, shoved his hand inside of John's pants, and began to stroke his half-hard cock.

"God," John groaned, "right here?"

"Where else?" Sherlock chuckled darkly.

"Does the door to this room even lock?" John asked, nearly breathless.

"No."

"It's the middle of the morning! Someone's bound to walk in…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled back. He tugged John by the arm, pulling him along, and they stumbled over to a half open door.

Sherlock flicked on the light, pushed John inside, and closed the door behind them. It was a small, rather dimly lit supply closet, full of shelf upon shelf of glassware and microscopes. Lots of very breakable things. It seemed like something that should be concerning. But then Sherlock slumped down onto the tile floor and pulled John on top of him.

John felt overly warm. Perhaps he had too many clothes on. Or maybe it was Sherlock squirming underneath him. Kissing him. Making every effort to press their bodies closer together.

The doctor managed to wriggle out of his trousers and pants, kicking them off along with his shoes. He propped himself up enough so they could get Sherlock's slacks unzipped.

Sherlock pulled one of his ever-present packets of lubricant out of his jacket pocket and tore it open. John put a knee down on either side of Sherlock's torso, budging up slightly so Sherlock could reach between his thighs.

John shivered a slick finger brushed across his entrance.

"How is it possible that you become more attractive every time we have sex?" Sherlock grinned at him as he pushed his finger inside the smaller man.

John groaned. God. Sherlock on a case-solving high. It was frightening. Entrancing. Bloody fantastic.

Sherlock began to slowly work two fingers in and out, grazing against the right spot every now and then. Just enough to make John let out choked little whimpers. Really, they should be quiet. Just because they were in a supply closet, it didn't mean somebody wouldn't hear them.

He probably should have been worried about how little he cared.

John pushed back against Sherlock's fingers experimentally. It earned him another one. Sherlock had an unreadable expression plastered across his face. Lips parted. Eyes wide. Just a light pinkness brushed across his cheeks. If John didn't know any better, he might have called it shocked wonder.

The detective withdrew his fingers slowly and slicked the remaining lubricant onto his cock. John sat up straight, gripped Sherlock, positioned the head of his cock, tried to relax his muscles as much as possible, and slowly sank down.

When Sherlock's cock popped in past the first tight ring of muscle, John gasped. Took several, deep, shuddering breaths. Sherlock trailed his fingers across John's naked thigh. Perhaps in a comforting gesture. Perhaps just because. John's blood rushed around frantically. He bit his lip, and sank down further onto Sherlock's prick.

The taller man slid his hands upwards, to wrap around John's hipbones. He squeezed slightly and let out a little grunt as John took more of him in.

The doctor jolted slightly, when Sherlock's cock grazed across the right spot. He began to roll his hips. Fucking himself slow and shallow. Sherlock held onto him just a bit tighter and stared up at him with an intensity that should have been frightening.

John began to let Sherlock slide in a bit deeper with every motion. His over-excited nerve endings buzzed. He was sweating. Soon his leg-muscles would burn in protest of the repeated movement. But then he touched down against sherlock's thighs, fully seated. He leaned forward slightly, taking a moment to savor it, before moving again.

Sherlock began to thrust, meeting John's motions. Their pace slowly increased. John couldn't help the noises coming out of his mouth, and Sherlock was anything but discouraging.

"_John_," Sherlock said breathlessly. "You feel... you feel amazing."

The doctor trembled. The heat welled up inside him. Such a strange, nearly panicked feeling. Chasing after the tingling pleasure. He leaned forward just a bit more and it sent a wonderful sort of shock through him.

"That's it," Sherlock nearly whispered. "Take your pleasure on my cock. Does it feel good?"

"Yes," John groaned.

"Are you going to come for me?"

John nodded, because he wasn't entirely confident in his ability to force words out of his mouth.

Sherlock sped up just a little bit. John went still, just holding himself in place as Sherlock fucked him. He felt the tension curl through his muscles. The near painful uphill struggle. And then, the crashing wave as the tension released.

John couldn't breathe. Made several inhuman sounds. He nearly collapsed as the rhythmic spasms overtook him. He painted several stripes of ejaculate over the front of Sherlock's black button down. But the detective didn't seem to care in the slightest.

He thrust up into John one, two, three more times. Then he shuddered, and went still. Pulling John down on top of him. Hugging him tightly as he rode out his own orgasm.

They lay there on the floor for several minutes, slowly coming back to reality. John chuckled slightly. Then Sherlock joined him.

"Well, we've got Scotland Yard, St. Bart's, the back of a cab and Mycroft's office. I think if we want to top ourselves we might have to do the London Eye," John shook his head.

"That can be arranged."

"Jesus, I was kidding."

"I know." Sherlock gently trailed his fingers across John's back. "I should probably stay here and keep working. But I bet you haven't eaten. You should go get breakfast."

"All right. Want anything?"

"No. Perhaps some coffee."

John leaned up to steal a small kiss from Sherlock's lips. "You're going to be covered in come all day," he grinned.

Sherlock kissed him back. Slow. Gentle. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

John arrived at the Lanesborough a bit early. He hadn't really wanted to tuck his Sig into his coat. But Sherlock had insisted. Really, he should probably be grateful that Sherlock was still busy at the lab, and hadn't tried to come along. No doubt he would have deduced half of John's old unit to white-hot rage, and the other half to silent depression.

John entered the hotel lobby and made his way towards the lifts. He got in and pressed the button for the seventh floor—where Max was staying.

An odd feeling settled into John's stomach. Not nervousness exactly. Well, perhaps a bit. Of course, he as looking forward to seeing old friends. But he wasn't the person they'd all known back in Afghanistan. Nobody came out of the war unchanged… but somehow, John felt his changed might be more dramatic than what was typical.

Between getting shot in the shoulder, moving in with a self-proclaimed sociopathic genius, and entering a kinky pseudo-relationship with another man—well, John didn't know how much he still had in common with his old army mates. They'd known him as "Thee Continents Watson," the boisterous womanizer. And now, he didn't know exactly what he was. His life had certainly become far more confusing and complex.

The lift bell rang and the door opened. John stepped out onto the plush carpeting and strode down the hall to 725. He knocked three times before the door swung open.

"Watson!" Allen barked merrily, clapping John on his good shoulder and pulling him into a half-hug. "How are ya? You delightful bastard."

Allen had always been big and loud—over two meters tall, with a booming voice to match. He'd grown his vibrant crimson hair out since discharge. The shock of curls sat a bit oddly on the top of his head.

John smiled up at him, "Not too bad. Just been wasting time around the city. How's Berlin?"

"Ah, you know. Same as any city," Allen chuckled. "But the German girls, pure bloody perfection."

Allen tugged John into the room and closed the door. Max and Jamie lounged on armchairs in front of the telly, holding cans of Guinness and watching football.

Max, the shorter of the two dark haired men, handed John a beer as the doctor sank down onto the edge of the bed. John opened it and took a small sip, relaxing somewhat as the cold liquid slid down his throat.

"So," Max grunted, "we thought it'd be a bit of a laugh to look up that blog of yours. Sounds like you've been pretty busy, solving crimes and all."

John felt his cheeks go slightly pink. "Oh, it's nothing, really. I mean, Sherlock Holmes does all the work. All I do is write about it."

"I liked the one about the aluminum crutch," Jamie smiled.

"Yeah. That's a popular one," John shifted on the bed slightly.

"So this genius, Holmes, he's your flat mate?" Allen asked as he opened a beer for himself.

"Uh huh," John nodded.

"How the fuck did that happen?"

"He's a friend of Stamford's. We were both looking for somewhere to live," John shrugged.

"Blimey," Allen shook his head. "What's it like living with somebody as smart as that? Is he a nightmare?"

"Nah. He's not so bad."

"You should have invited him along. The more the merrier."

"Oh… I dunno. He's not really great with people…" John trailed off.

John finished his first beer and opened another while Allen nattered about Germany. Bill showed up. Then they all had a shot of his whiskey while they waited for Paul. They didn't have to wait very long. Paul arrived after about another fifteen minutes, they all had another shot of whiskey, and then they made their way out into the night.

"Where's the Colonel?" Max asked as they walked down the street, towards the first pub they had in mind. "Wasn't he planning on joining us?"

"Yeah, he had some business thing. But he's meeting us later," Allen shrugged.

"The Colonel?" John half-raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Nice bloke." Allen lit a cigarette and continued to talk. "He used to hang around the base in Kabul. And then he was seeing Bill's cousin for a while, wasn't it?"

"Didn't seem so nice to me," Bill muttered.

"Oh, shut it. He always buys us all a few rounds. And it's not like she was your sister or nothing."

Bill muttered something unintelligible and John had to suppress a small laugh.

* * *

John bought the first round. Allen got the second. Max the third. They kept a steady rotation as they stumbled from pub to pub. John had always been able to hold his liquor, but apparently he was a bit out of practice. Perhaps he was just smaller than all the other men. But by the time they got to the fourth pub, he was walking a tender line between tipsy, and really, properly pissed.

They were all talking and joking just like old times. They played the usual games. Pushing each other towards attractive women, egging each other on, and then laughing hysterically whenever somebody inevitably got rejected.

John didn't really notice when Allen's phone rang. He registered it, but didn't think much of it. He was onto his next pint before he looked up to see that somebody had joined their table.

His heart stopped beating.

Sebastian Moran stood beside Allen, smiling, wearing a nicely pressed suit. He looked John directly in the eyes and nodded.

"Hello there, I'm Colonel Moran. I don't believe we've met before."

John gripped his glass with white knuckles to keep his hands from shaking. It was _definitely_ the same man he'd met at the Holmes estate. The odd, cold eyes. The scar down his cheek. He was suddenly quite glad for the weight of the Sig in his coat pocket.

"John Watson," he said in an admirably even voice.

Sebastian disappeared for a moment, to order another round. John shot off a text to Sherlock.

**Sebastian Moran just showed up.**

Sherlock texted back immediately.

**Get out. Now - SH**

John looked around at his friends nervously. He didn't exactly want to leave them here with a lunatic gun for hire.

"Guys," he said in a low, urgent voice. "I _have_ met that man before. He's quite dangerous. He's a criminal—"

"What are you on about, Watson?" Allen asked hazily.

Damn. They were all drunk. This wasn't good. This was very not good. He quickly texted their address to Sherlock. No doubt he'd let Mycroft know.

"That man, Sebastian Moran—Sherlock has nearly arrested him before. He works for—"

But then Sebastian approached the table again. It seemed that nobody was really in the mood to listen to John. They all happily picked up the pints Sebastian offered them. John felt his pocket vibrating like crazy. No doubt Sherlock asking what was happening.

John debated pulling out his Sig and shooting Moran right there. But there were so many civilians around them. And Moran was probably armed too. It could go so very bad, so very quickly. His heart pounded in his throat.

He reached into his pocket and curled his fingers around the gun. Moran raised his eyebrows and casually mirrored John's motion. Bugger.

Moran took another easy sip of his pint then smiled, "you'll have to excuse me for a moment, lads."

And he began to walk calmly, carefully, towards the men's toilet. He nodded his head, in a silent invitation for John to follow. John shouldn't. But then he looked around at all his mates. If he didn't go, Moran might start shooting.

He stood and began his careful walk after the taller man. Mycroft would no doubt have the place swarming with secret service in a matter of minutes. All he had to do was live until then. He could do that. Perhaps Moran was dangerous. But John was dangerous too.

The second they got through the door, John drew his gun and cocked it. Moran had his out too. But he was still smiling.

"Ah, ever the hero, aren't we Mr. Watson?" He said in a low voice. "So _ready_ to jump headlong into danger to save your friends."

"What the fuck do you want?" John spat. "If you don't explain to me why you're here right now, I'll pull the trigger. We'll see who's faster."

"Oh, such a feisty little dog," Sebastian rolled his eyes. "I'm just here to talk to you. If I wanted you dead, I would have killed you already. There's no need to be so hostile."

"You've got a gun pulled on me," John snorted.

"Arguably, you pulled a gun before I did… I'm going to reach into my coat pocket to grab my mobile. Is that acceptable?"

"You make a sudden movement and I shoot," John said evenly.

Slowly, carefully, Moran reached into his pocket and pulled out a camera phone. He slowly dipped down, set it on the floor, and slid it across to John.

"All you have to do is press play," Moran bit his lip slightly.

"What, so I'll take my eyes off you?" John leveled his arm, refusing to move.

"Best do as I say. We're rather on a tight schedule and I don't have time to argue with you. No doubt you've called the authorities and alerted them to my presence."

"Seems like I have a lot of incentive to waste time," John said coldly.

"Fancy thing, this gun," Moran shrugged. "The boss certainly paid a pretty penny for it. See, the handle here, it's got a button on it. A button I've just pressed down." Moran indicated a small red button on the side of the gun that he was indeed holding. "It doubles as a dead man's switch. If you shoot me, and I drop the gun, this whole place goes sky high. If you don't watch the video, I drop the gun, and everybody dies just the same. The boss had the roof packed with explosives… it's actually the reason I told dear Allen that I wanted to meet all of you here."

John cursed inwardly. He couldn't know for sure if Moran was telling the truth. But he couldn't bloody well risk it.

"Watch the video, Watson," Sebastian nodded at the phone. "I promise you're interested in it. Go on."

John kept the gun trailed on Moran as he bent to pick up the phone. He pressed the play button and held the breath.

Nothing exploded.

No. A video simply started playing.

The scene looked like an interior of a dance club. An oddly familiar dance club. The camera zoomed in and zoomed in until it was trailed on the back of somebody's head. They had dark curly hair.

Wait.

The man turned slightly. Just enough for John to recognize Sherlock's profile.

_What the hell?_

Jim Morairty's arms were wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders. They danced together. Pressed up against each other. Jim whispered something into Sherlock's ear, then turned him around so that the smaller man was grinding against Sherlock's arse.

John couldn't watch. He couldn't look away. He felt sick. What was he even seeing?

Jim wrapped Sherlock in a tight hug, and then he pulled away. Sherlock turned back around, and then Jim drew him into a kiss. A long, fucking sloppy kiss, that Sherlock returned very god damned eagerly.

Their hands were all over each other. Pulling at clothing, rubbing across skin. It looked like they were trying to devour each other's mouths.

John's eyes burned, as the salt pushed just behind his irises. Begging to leak out as big, wet tears. A dull ache throbbed in his chest, growing more intense with each passing moment.

"Pretty hot, isn't it? The boss and I have fucked to it a few times already," Moran _laughed_.

John so very nearly lost it. He so very nearly pulled the trigger. Because more than anything he wanted to put a bullet inside Jim Morairty. But his hired assassin would do just fine at that moment, thank you.

He raised his eyes to meet Sebastian's even though he felt himself trembling with rage.

"The next time we meet, I'm going to murder you," he said in his lowest, most threatening voice.

"I very much doubt that. But good luck trying."

And with that, Sebastian began to edge towards the window in the far corner. He pushed it open and climbed out, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

John's pocket vibrated again. Twenty new messages from Sherlock. John opened the most recent one. It still felt like he was dreaming. Like the world had fallen out from underneath him.

**Are you ok? If he's hurt you, I'll kill him - SH**

John almost laughed. Almost cried.

Because nobody could ever hurt him the way Sherlock could.

He glanced back down. The video still played across the tiny screen. Surreal. Horrific. His ears were ringing. His legs felt like they didn't belong to him anymore. He couldn't possibly move from the spot.

There was a commotion outside. No doubt Mycroft's men, looking for Moran. John knew he'd have to go deal with the situation. Tell them Moran escaped out the window.

But the bastard had probably already disappeared.

He allowed himself just one more minute. To soak in the shock and awe of it all before anger overtook the confused pain and sadness.

* * *

_That's ok, darling. Scream it out. Grab a pillow, and just scream it out. I'd apologize... except I'm sure you're aware that I'm not sorry, and we don't want to make me a liar._

_Reviews, follows and favorites make me want to compose really bad sonnets about my love for you glorious people. _

**_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? _**

**_Your reviews make me squeal like a school child. _**

**_Rough winds may shake our plot line this Wednesday,_**

**_But it shall be resolved in a short while._**

_I'm a smutter, not a poet. But that was pretty much in iambic pentameter. God. I shouldn't write author's notes after getting five hours of sleep. Never let me do that again._

_I'll see you next Wednsday! Things and stuff will happen!_

_xoxo_


	20. Harmonic Inspiration

_Fair warning: I have good news and I have bad news. The bad news is, no, I did not make everything better. The good news is… there's a happy ending. I promise. Just… just a bit more angst. I'm sorry. It hurt me to write this! But. Gah. Just. I know. Don't hate me forever. There will be fluff. Just… just hold on a little longer. The only warning I have besides angst, is violation of personal space. Or, Sherlock gets a rather handsy weapon's search. Besides that, there's definitely still smut in this chapter. I wouldn't let you down on that account :)_

* * *

Sherlock heard the door slam open downstairs. He sat on the couch, trying to take deep breaths. John hadn't been answering his calls. Or texts. He would have already raced out of the apartment and started looking for him, except Mycroft told him John was fine. He answered all questions asked of him. Sebastian Moran left him supposedly unharmed. But the bastard must have done something. Because John _never_ ignored his texts, much less his calls.

The detective resisted the urge to jump off the couch when John walked through the door. Instead he stood slowly.

"John, are you ok did he—"

"No," John said flatly. "He didn't harm a single hair on my head."

John walked over stiffly. Limping slightly. Favoring his "good" leg. Oh dear. That was a very bad sign. His hands were shaking. The doctor held out an unfamiliar mobile.

"What's this?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know. You tell me."

Sherlock took the mobile. There was a video pulled up. He hit the play button. The second he saw the night club, his breath caught. The camera zoomed in. On him and Moriarty.

_Fuck._

He dropped the mobile on the couch, recoiling as if burned.

"I can explain…"

"Really?" John's voice had a slight tremble to it. "Good. Because I don't want to believe it. Give me a good excuse not to."

Shit. John's face. It was past crying. He had that hollow, broken look about him. Like he often did when he woke up from a particularly bad PTSD nightmare. A surge of panic pounded through Sherlock's body. He had to say something. Anything.

"I—I didn't want to," he spluttered.

"Oh really? Looks like you did," John nodded at the screen. "I don't see him holding a gun to your head."

"He said he'd hurt you!" Sherlock felt his voice getting louder. He didn't mean it. It was a bad time to shout.

John stayed almost perfectly still. Didn't flinch. Just blinked at him placidly. Somehow that was worse.

"Ah, right," John nodded. "So it was about me, then. You tried to suck Moriarty's face off for my benefit, is it? Good. That's nice."

"John, you have to believe me." Yep. He was on the verge of shouting. Deep breaths.

"Oh. I do. That certainly looks like a forced kiss. You don't seem to be enjoying it in the slightest. And you're not kissing him back at all," John's voice cracked. But he maintained a steady, even gaze.

Sherlock reached out. He didn't really know why. He just had to touch John. Perhaps wrap him in the sort of hug he couldn't easily break out of. Hold him until he didn't look so hollow anymore. But before his hand made contact with the doctor's shoulder, the smaller man took a step back.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't touch me right now," he said evenly.

Sherlock's hand fell back to his side. Silence rang through the room as oppressive and terrifying as a bomb blast. John was the first one to speak again.

"Was it just the one time? You know what—I actually don't want the answer to that."

"I swear. I haven't even seen him in person since then. I'd never..."

"Oh, come on now. We both know you would. You think he's bloody _fascinating_." John laughed. It was a grating, painful sound. Fake, forced, desperate. Like the doctor was on the verge of completely falling apart. But he took a few deep breaths. John looked at the floor. He wouldn't even meet Sherlock's eyes. "Do you understand why I'm upset? Or is this one of those things about people that escapes you?"

"I understand." The words felt muddled and heavy in Sherlock's mouth, "it's how I'd feel if you slept with Mycroft."

"Right," John nodded. Then he turned on his heel and started walking towards the stairs up to his room. Sherlock couldn't help it. He had to follow.

He stood in the doorway and watched silently as John pulled a small suitcase out of his closet and started putting clothes into it. Every shirt, every pair of trousers, was a bullet through Sherlock's heart. He had to do something. He couldn't let John _leave_. What if he didn't come back?

"John I—"

"No." John paused. He was shaking. He curled his fingers into the fabric of the shirt he'd just taken out of his dresser. "I just need a little bit of time, all right? I'm going to sleep in a hotel for a few nights, and then we'll talk about it."

_But what if I'm not here to talk about it when you get back?_ Sherlock felt suddenly ill. Moriarty. He had less than twenty-four hours before he had to deal with that whole mess. There couldn't be a worse time for this to be happening. Oh…. Of course he'd planned it that way.

Sherlock shook himself. John was nearly finished packing. He had to act. Right _then._

"Please don't go. I need you." He didn't mean it to sound quite so pathetic. But it worked. John went still. Froze in the middle of reaching to close the suitcase.

"You don't need me, Sherlock," John said quietly, "that's the problem. You're my entire life. And I'm just a tiny piece of yours. It's not healthy." The smaller man rubbed a hand across his face, as if he were trying to scrub away the awful sort of tension that had filled the air.

"I…" Sherlock swallowed hard. God. He couldn't say it. Not now. Was there any other choice? "It was only a kiss."

"I know. But it's not even about that is it?" John let out a heavy sigh. "He's your equal. At least, that's how you look at him. And I'm your pet. How am I even supposed to compete? I don't want to. Because I know I'll lose. He'll always be more interesting and you'll never really respect me—because I do everything you say without question. He's a bloody super villain. I'm just a funny little army doctor, and one day you'll get bored of me. Or maybe you already have."

Sherlock nearly broke right there. Nearly jumped across the room and just tackled John. Because how could he think that? Didn't he know that if Sherlock hadn't gotten tired of him by this point, he never ever would? Didn't he know he was the most interesting person in the world? Or if not the most interesting… the only person that had ever really cared about Sherlock before?

That was worth everything. All that mattered. He opened his mouth before he could think about it. The words just spilled out.

"But I love you." Sherlock resisted the urge to clap his hand over his mouth and run away. He stood tall. If he was doing this, he was really doing it.

"Don't say that," John barely managed to choke out the words.

"Why not? It's true."

"No… you've never said that before, and the only reason you're saying it now is because you're trying to manipulate me. You don't mean it."

He dared a step closer. John stepped away. God. This was all wrong. His ribcage felt like it was going to squeeze down around his lungs and suffocate him.

"I mean it, John," his voice shook. Hitching without his permission. He gulped and continued. "I just didn't want to realize it before. But… I don't know how I lived before you got here. I look back and it all just seems so empty. You're the only person that's ever made me feel like I'm not completely alone."

John looked like he wanted to throw something. Or like he might cry. Obviously not the desired outcome, but then again, the timing was quite poor.

He wanted to say more. To tell John how badly he wanted them to buy a house in the country, and get a dog, and yell at each other for no reason, and watch crappy television, and make lazy love, and fall asleep together every night for the rest of their lives.

But he'd said too much already. Maybe John was too angry to hear this. Maybe he didn't trust Sherlock anymore. Maybe he never would again.

None of it even felt real. It felt like Sherlock's feet were floating inches above the ground and everything was moving at an awkward half-time.

John buried his face in his hands and let out a long, unsteady breath. "I'm going to a hotel, Sherlock. If I don't leave right now, I never will."

"But—"

"Let me finish. I can't think when I'm around you, and right now I can't decide if I want to fuck you or punch you in the face. If you try to stop me, it's definitely going to be the latter. I love you too. I'm sure you know that I do. But at least one of us needs to behave like a rational adult before this relationship destroys both of us. Do you understand?"

Sherlock bit his lip. The last time he'd felt so utterly raw and exposed had also been because of those damned three words. _I love you_. God. He never wanted to say it ever again. And at the same time, he wanted to say it to John every day. Multiple times a day.

How had he fucked this up so royally?

John zipped up the suitcase. He placed it on the floor and pulled out the handle. Sherlock still stood in the doorway. Maybe if he didn't move, maybe if he could somehow become a human wall, John wouldn't go.

The doctor stepped forward and nodded awkwardly, "Can I get by?"

Sherlock didn't move an inch. Just stood there. Trying to become an immoveable barrier. Or maybe he'd just lost control of his body. Checked out completely. Couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to.

The moisture began to gather at the corners of John's eyes. Sherlock felt like somebody had shattered a pane of glass inside him. All the jagged pieces had caused massive internal hemorrhaging. He ached everywhere.

He blinked, and something leaked out. Just one tear. They were both moments away from falling on the floor and bawling their eyes out like children, weren't they?

"Are you really going to come back?" He asked in a voice that didn't even belong to him. It came from underwater. The shaky murmurings of a drowned man.

John tried to wipe away some of the tears on his sleeve. "If I don't, I have complete confidence that you'll stalk me." He let out something that might have been a laugh. But it sounded more like a sob. He walked those few extra steps, and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, gently pushing him out of the doorway.

Sherlock stepped aside without thinking.

John squeezed his arm. And then he walked down the stairs. Out. Away. Gone. Sherlock continued to stand there. As if he'd forgotten he had legs.

Perhaps just a few minutes passed. Perhaps he spent hours just staring at the empty space John had left. After some indeterminable length of time, he stumbled over to John's bed and sank down on it. It still smelled like him. Like PG Tips, wool jumpers, and a vaguely spicy aftershave. He let the scent envelop him. Wrap around him in create the illusion that everything was still fine.

He kicked off his shoes and lay face down, inhaling one of the pillows. Something inside him released, and it all came bubbling up. The ugly crying. The crying that hurt and made it difficult to breathe. For the most part, he disassociated from it. Checked out and watched it happen from above himself. When it was over, he felt physically and emotionally exhausted. One of the benefits of releasing tears. It has an anesthetic affect. Makes a person tired. Makes sleep come easier.

He let the weight settle down on top of him. Rolled over and closed his eyes. Tangled himself up in the sheets.

* * *

When Sherlock finally slipped away into to sleep, his dreams closed in around him, hot and visceral. Warm bodies. Faceless people, writhing against him, grunting and groaning. Sweaty skin rubbing up against him. Trapped in a never-ending crowd.

He fought his way through, searching for the edge.

_John?_

He called out in the clamoring mass of noise. He pushed and pushed until he broke through into the surrounding darkness. Then he began to run. Because he had to find John, he just had to.

Leather snapped against skin in the vague distance. Chains rattled. And then, a dog collar came out of nowhere to wrap around Sherlock's neck. Like a python. Squeezing far too tight for comfort.

A disembodied weight forced Sherlock down to his knees. He crawled, but couldn't seem to get anywhere. The ground underneath him was made of sand. It slipped and gave, making it nearly impossible to move.

Then the sand began to freeze. The sensation made his stomach lurch. And then everything was so very cold.

Alone.

Shivering.

Naked.

Still searching but unable to find. He didn't even know where he was. The sand had turned to snow underneath him. It crunched unpleasantly with each forward motion he attempted.

_John?_

He called into the bleakness of the blizzard. But no response came. No response from John anyway. Instead his shouts were greeted with a harsh, singsong laughter.

He struggled to his feet and began to run again. Searching. Calling. But the snow only got deeper and deeper around him. Until he couldn't move. Froze.

One of Paganini's sonatas began to play in the background. The ice melted. He began to move forward again. The air grew warmer. He came to the edge of the world. And there was John. Waiting for him. Holding out his hand, smiling comfortingly.

They grasped each other and jumped off the edge, falling, falling, into a soft feather bed.

"It's ok, Sherlock," John whispered as he ran his hands over every inch of the detective's skin. He seemed to be wrapped around Sherlock. Touching him everywhere. The arousal sparked through him. The familiar ache. Need. Want. Must have.

They rolled around on the bed, tangled up in each other. He couldn't tell where he ended and John began. He just needed to be closer. Held tighter. Never let go.

A soft, summer breeze swirled around them. They kissed, and everything exploded in a symphony of light and color. It was Vivaldi playing now. Everything wonderful. Everything right.

John slid against him eagerly. Sherlock felt the heat of him. His erect prick, pressed into Sherlock's abdomen.

"I just want to love you," John breathed. "Please, can I?"

"Yes, John," he breathed. "Anything for you."

His blood was a tropical ocean. Wave after wave of excitement pulsed through him. John's fingers, slick and hot, slipped inside him. He moaned. Because yes, that was very nice. John stretched him open, carefully, lovingly, planting kisses along his collar bone as he went. Everything throbbed in the most pleasant way.

He lay on his back, feet on the bed, knees bent, and John sprawled on top of him, kissing him, caressing him, nothing to fear. He felt the pressure. John's cock nudging at his entrance. And he relaxed. John slid inside him and the music got louder. He recognized it. Concerto number nine of L'Estro Armonico. D major.

The sound of joyful violins swirled through his veins as John thrust forward.

He shuddered. Forest fires raged inside his belly. John's motions made the fire blaze more brightly. Yet, they were also the thing that would eventually extinguish them.

They melded together. Glowing. Full of light. Chasing away all the dark. John surrounded him. They were the only things in the universe. Just them, and the music, and the shapeless colors that crowded around them.

Sherlock began to ache with it—all the wonderful feelings spreading inside him, threatening to overflow. John pressed their lips together, completed the circuit.

"Let go. I've got you."

Sherlock relaxed. Let the music spill out. His nerves pulsed the fire flared, then flickered. He let the pleasure overtake him. Consume him. Every contraction, spasm, was a flash of intense color. He leaked the entire spectrum of visible light. John stayed with him. Joined. Keeping a careful watch as Sherlock fell apart underneath him.

They stayed intertwined. Wrapped up in each other. The colors got brighter. Music stayed loud. As if they were in the middle of an orchestra. John smiled. He began to move again. Sherlock shuddered. Almost oversensitive. But it was a beautiful sort of rawness.

He wrapped his limbs around John and held on for the ride. Soon the anxious, over-stimulated feeling bled over into pleasure once again. John wouldn't hurt him. He kept his thrusts slow and steady. Languid.

The tension built. A strange, uncertain sort of feeling. Like standing on a very tall building, and looking out the window. Realizing how high above the ground you are. But they just kept going higher and higher. The feeling seemed to increase exponentially.

Every nerve in Sherlock's body buzzed in a strange harmony. His stomach coiled in on itself. His muscles seem to become almost frantic. Too tense. Something had to give. Break. He rode up with the music. In a grand crescendo.

Then he released once again. He felt his cock pulse. Twitch. He clenched around John. The doctor shuddered. They held onto each other to keep from getting lost in the feeling of it. Stayed joined, even as the motion stopped and the music slowly went quiet.

John slid off of him. Lay next to him. Still touching him. The air was thick with wonderful smells. Honey. Cigarette smoke. Fresh rain. John. Perfect. Everything in the moment was so perfect.

The smaller man reached up and ran his fingers along Sherlock's jawline. Sherlock leaned into the touch. But then everything around him began to fade. No. He didn't want it to go away. He reached out and tried to grab onto John. But it was like trying to grab onto smoke. And uncomfortable light crowded in around him. He was rushing back up towards the surface.

_John_.

Too late. About to wake up.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes, and immediately closed them again, shocked by the brightness streaming in through the window. He got the distinct feeling that something important was missing. It took a few moments for reality to set back in. For him to realize he'd fallen asleep in John's room, but that the doctor himself was gone.

He blinked. Every inch of him felt heavy. Lethargic. Nearly eleven o'clock. He rarely slept in. When he did it made him feel almost drunk. But he had collect himself. Prepare for battle.

He forced himself out of bed and into the shower. Let the warm water pound over him. He felt oddly empty. No need to wonder why.

He went through the motions. Made tea. A piece of toast. Sat at the kitchen table and stared off fretfully into space.

**Is everything arranged? - SH**

**Yes - MH**

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his temples. It wasn't much of a plan. But really, the only way they could know how much of the drug Moriarty had and where he kept it, was if Sherlock went willingly. Moriarty was nothing, if not slippery. He had no doubts that if he sent one of Mycroft's assassins, Jim would see it coming and slither away unharmed.

They couldn't allow Moriarty to hold onto such a powerful weapon. Even if he couldn't figure it out how to manufacture the stuff, even if Sherlock couldn't either, that didn't mean it was necessarily impossible.

No. It had to be him. He had to go and face the devil in his own lair, on pre-ordained terms.

But of course, he wouldn't go in without back up. All he had to do was survive a twenty-four hour period. Enough to lure Moriarty into a false sense of security. To find out where he kept the drug. To take it by force, steal it, or simply locate it and wait for Mycroft's men to arrive. Simple. So simple.

The only challenge would be to keep Moriarty from figuring out that he'd caught on. That he knew the supply was limited and Moriarty had been trying to trick him into figuring out the compound so he could make more. Sherlock had to be the distraction from the large endgame. He had to steal Moriarty's focus so that he wouldn't see Mycroft coming.

He could do it. He knew he could. All he'd have to do was act like he'd enjoyed the show enough to want to stay for the encore.

He'd have to convince Jim that he wanted to play in the dark.

Sherlock was a good actor. He knew what to say. How to say it. What expression to match with what tone, in order to achieve the maximum effect. He wouldn't even have to pretend that much. That was the dangerous part. He had to acknowledge how easy it would actually be to delve into the piece of himself that wanted nothing more than to cause pain—to dismantle the world and see its basest components. That wasn't him. He chose to be on the side fighting for order.

But he'd by lying if he said that chaos didn't entice him.

He had to remember, he was doing this to keep John safe. To keep everyone safe. A world in which James Moriarty could brainwash anybody into doing whatever he said was a terrible world to imagine indeed.

Still.

Maybe Sherlock was just a little bit nervous. Because if Moriarty saw through the act, things could go so very badly.

Moriarty was clever. One of the smartest people he'd ever met, second only to Mycroft. Yet, his real danger didn't lie in his brilliance. His sharpest edge, the one most likely to cut, was his utter insanity and his obsessive nature.

He'd fixated on Sherlock. They both knew it would only ever end one way. Death. Perhaps both of them. Perhaps just one. Sherlock didn't think the game was over yet. But he couldn't be sure. And at the root, that was the most terrifying thing of all. His expiration date was to be dictated by the whims of a mad man.

He finished his tea and walked to his bedroom. He dressed slowly, putting on one of his best suits. Coal black. Paired with a crisp, white shirt. He cleared his phone out of any pertinent information. No doubt Moriarty wouldn't allow him to keep it.

The final step, was to take out the bottle of pills he kept in the bathroom cupboard. Dopamine blockers. It probably wouldn't stop the effects of the compound, but it might reduce them. A small shield. It would certainly be effective if Moriarty decided it'd be a laugh to inject Sherlock with some cocaine to try to kick-start his old habit.

He'd take anything he could get.

He poured himself a glass of water and swallowed two pills. They wouldn't be effective for an entire twenty-four hours. But he couldn't exactly take them with him.

Deep breaths. Focus. Calm. There was a high likelihood he'd have to disconnect from himself. He had to stay detached. Unshakeable. More than anything, Moriarty wanted to see Sherlock fall apart, and he wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction.

He rubbed at the small bump on the nape of his neck. The place where Mycroft had injected a tracking chip yesterday afternoon. Sherlock had only agreed to it for the remainder of this project. He'd have it removed immediately afterwards.

One more glass of water. A final look in the mirror. Then Sherlock put on his mask. Serene apathy.

He walked out the door—a fly, willingly seeking out the spider's web.

* * *

It was a sunny day. People out on the street, laughing, smiling, rushing about their daily lives. Sherlock was an island of silence. A blank slate as he walked through Bryanston Square, towards the empty building.

The windows were dark. Perhaps curtained, but probably boarded up on the inside. The sign above the door still read, _Mother Goose's_ _Play School_. He snorted slightly. Jim's fascination with childlike innocence wasn't just a breadcrumb in his plan. Even if Jim didn't realize it, the whole thing was quite telling.

He suspected Jim had never really gotten the chance to be a child. Probably had to grow up quickly. After all, he'd murdered Carl Powers at the tender age of thirteen. That in itself spoke volumes. Perhaps, as Jim had said, he was born a monster. But that didn't mean there hadn't been contributing factors to warp and twist him along the way.

Sherlock reached the door and knocked sharply. His heart raced, pounding in his throat. It was never the actual moment of confrontation that scared him. But the anticipation of it sometimes got to him.

The door swung open on squeaky hinges. Sherlock took a deep breath, and walked inside. The room was dark. It took his eyes a moment to adjust.

The building looked relatively abandoned. There was an old reception desk, with dust gathering on it. To the left, a half-open door towards what presumably used to be the play room. Straight ahead was a long hallway. Sherlock decided it wasn't really the time to explore. So he waited.

He heard the door close behind him and he turned around. An overhead light flicked on. Sebastian Moran stood, blocking the exit, dressed in yet another ridiculously expensive suit, holding a gun.

"Hello again, Mr. Holmes," he smiled, "so nice of you to drop by."

"Was dear Jim too busy to meet me in person?" Sherlock half raised an eyebrow.

"Come now. There's no need to be rude. It'd be better for you if we were friendly, Holmes. After all… when Jim's done with you, I get to do whatever I like."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Sherlock's stomach twisted slightly. It was one thing to deal with Jim. Jim held him in high esteem, as an adversary, and a conquest. However, Sebastian Moran saw him as competition. And Mr. Moran seemed like the sort of man that would eliminate competition at all costs. He didn't like the idea of such a man having him in handcuffs. But perhaps there was no option.

"You know those aren't necessary," Sherlock nodded at the cuffs as Sebastian advanced. "I've come willingly."

"Sure. But I think they'd look good on you," Sebastian grinned lecherously. "Hands behind your back now, love. No sudden movements."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. But he complied, placing his hands behind his back so Sebastian could snap the cuffs around his wrists. After he was chained, Sebastian began the pat down. Frisking his legs first, then traveling upwards. Taking his own sweet time.

"So is this your warehouse? Where you keep all the drugs?" Sherlock asked detachedly, as Sebastian squeezed his arse in an entirely unnecessary manner.

"One of them. But of course we had to clear it all out. No doubt your brother had you followed."

Sherlock shrugged and tried not to tense as Sebastian reached forward and cupped his groin.

"If you don't stop being so handsy, I'm going to tell Jim that you've spoiled his prize," Sherlock drawled.

"Just being thorough," Sebastian chuckled. But his hand dropped. He took Sherlock's mobile and finished the rest of his search in a more orderly fashion.

Sebastian placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, grabbed the chain between the cuffs with the other, and pushed him forward. They began walking down the narrow hallway.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock's eyes swept over the scene, searching for information. There wasn't much to find. Just dust. They'd cleared this warehouse a while ago. Must have been the first one. The start up for this particular operation.

"You'll find out soon enough."

They walked until they reached the end of the hallway. Ah. A back door. They stumbled into an alley. An un-marked van was waiting. Sebastian opened the back and pushed Sherlock inside. No windows. How predictable.

Sebastian shut the door, leaving Sherlock in the dark. The van's engine sputtered to life and they began to move.

He kept track of the turns at they made them. Visualizing a map of London. The driver seemed to be making a lot of needless circles, as if trying to confuse him. It didn't really work. They were headed out of the city. Interesting.

* * *

_Yep. I'm a terrible person. I know it. _

_Sorry I've fallen behind on responding to reviews this week. I got called in for a lot of extra hours at work and I've had precious little time to do anything besides eat junk food and sleep. I will do better. I swear I will._

_But still. Your reviews, follows and favorites leave me in a constant state of giddy awe. Really. It's the highlight of my day whenever I log on to see that you wonderful people have left me something nice! :)_

_Tune in next Wednesday, as always, for climactic happenings. I'm as scared to write it as you are to read it. But I'm sure it will all work out._

_And, in order to apologize for the terrible things I've done here, I have a gift for you. So come visit on Friday. I'll be posting some gender-swapped teen!lock happy times, called **Quite the Excitable Young Lady**. Fluffy Femslash makes me feel all giggly, so maybe it will help soothe your angst wounds just a little bit._

_(A note about Moriarty's age when the Carl Powers incident happened, I went by Andrew Scott's current age. Not what it was when the first season was filmed. Idk. But yeah. That's where that number came from)_

_xoxo_


	21. Flying into the Sun

_Fair warning: Yes. I'm still doing terrible things. But the good news is, there's no full-on Sheriarty in this chapter. It comes close. But they don't actually have sex/touch each other's fun bits. However, if you still do not like the idea of Sherlock and Jim together, you may find this chapter slightly squicky. Also mentions of non-con, though no actual non-con lurks here. HOWEVER, if you don't want to read about a bunch of Sheriarty related sexual tension, and Jim being a naked, terrible tease, you should stop after the page break. __And then, because there was no feasible way I could write Johnlock smut without making this chapter a hundred pages long, and I didn't want to make you cry with an actual Sherlock and Jim sex scene, a wild MorMor appears. I love MorMor. But if it's not for you, go on and skip it. Happy times are on the horizon. Just. You know. I have plot things to resolve first._

* * *

They were some distance away from the city by the time the car stopped. Sherlock had lost track of exactly where they were. It didn't particularly matter. Mycroft would have been monitoring their movements. Still, it irked him slightly to not quite know what part of the country they were in. Not terribly far form the city. They couldn't have been driving for more than an hour or two.

Still.

The back door swung open. Sherlock had to blink a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light. Not sunlight. Fluorescent. So they were indoors, then.

Sebastian Moran appeared, grabbed a hold of Sherlock's arm and tugged him out of the van.

"There's really no need to manhandle me," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I suppose not. But then again, there's no need to slap you around either. And I could do that if I felt so inclined."

Sebastian pushed him forward. They began walking.

They were in a warehouse. A proper one. Not overly large. Filled with rows and rows of storage racks. Miscellaneous boxes. Contents? Probably illegal—drugs, smuggled goods, could be anything. No windows. Sherlock had thought they'd been going down a hill, but perhaps they were underground?

"You've got quite the smuggling operation going here, don't you?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"The Boss does love his projects," Sebastian chuckled. "Of course… this one mostly just pays the bills. Lots of people want things to go in and out of the country unnoticed. Not our business to ask why."

Their footsteps echoed dully of the concrete floor. The warehouse was eerily quiet. No vague noises of people moving things around. No signs of life.

"Jim must have more employees than just you. Where are they?"

"Oh, most of them cleared out for the day. But don't worry. There's still plenty of security around. No need to try to escape."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Come on, now. Nobody comes in this place without a contingency plan. What? Your brother watching out for you? Do you plan to have this place swarming with secret service within the hour?"

"That would be stupid," Sherlock snorted. "You'd kill me before they got to me."

"Damn right. This entire place is rigged to blow."

Sherlock smiled to himself, filing away that little tidbit of information. Sebastian was probably a goldmine of useful facts. If only Sherlock would be allowed the time to sit down and pick his dull little brain…

Of course, they'd anticipated his escape might be complicated. Now wasn't quite the time to worry about it. If there was one area he trusted his brother in, it was finessing impossible situations.

He'd have to find the drug as well as the trigger for the bombs. Not so difficult. It would probably be obvious.

"Jim does rather have an obsession with explosions, doesn't he?" Sherlock sighed, wondering if he could get Moran to give him any more inadvertent help.

"Yep. The bigger and more destructive the better. I think it might be a sex thing."

"How wonderfully _insightful_, Sebastian. I'd never thought of that before."

Sebastian placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and squeezed hard enough to be thoroughly uncomfortable.

"Sarcasm will get you hurt here, pet. Careful now."

"I'm not your pet, and I'll say whatever I like to you."

Sebastian's hand inched forward, to place a threatening pressure on Sherlock's windpipe. "I could kill you right here. Sure, the Boss would be _mad_ about it… but he couldn't stop me. It'd almost be worth it. To die, knowing I squeezed the life out of you. That I stole away the satisfaction of letting Jim do it himself…"

Sebastian trailed off, seemingly lost in his own dark little fantasy. He must know. That Sherlock came first in Jim's twisted little head. That Sherlock came before almost everything else. The detective almost felt a pang of pity. What it must be like to love somebody that could never reciprocate it.

Was that what John felt like?

God. No. He couldn't think about that right then. His heart rate increased slightly. He took a few deep breaths, allowing his mind to go blank. He focused on their surroundings. They were fast approaching a wall of the warehouse.

Not much besides two metal doors to a lift. Sebastian pushed the down button. They didn't wait long before a bell softly dinged and the doors slid open.

They stepped inside. Sebastian pressed the basement button. According to the elevator, they'd been on the second highest floor. Four stories. Down they went.

The doors slid open to a much different scene than the one above. They stepped out of the elevator into a small room, with nothing in it but another door. This one looked heavy. Metal. Perhaps mechanically locked? Sebastian pulled out a key card and swiped it. A buzzer sounded and he pushed the door open.

It was liked they'd walked through the door of a typical flat, into a lavishly furnished parlor.

There were long leather couches, cushiony armchairs, and a few coffee tables. Abstract paintings hung on the walls. The overhead lights shone down soft, filtered through pale glass fixtures.

Jim Moriarty's idea of a meeting room? Probably. Or perhaps a home away from home.

"Boss?" Sebastian called, almost uncertainly, "I've got him."

They waited in silence for perhaps a minute or two. Then Jim appeared at the far end of the room. Dressed in a cleanly pressed midnight blue suit. Hair slicked back. A reptilian smile spread slowly across his face.

"Sherlock, darling, so nice of you to show up. Oh—for goodness sake, Sebby! We don't put _guests_ in handcuffs. Take those off right now."

"But Boss—"

"Unruly puppies get put in the kennel," Jim raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

Sebastian huffed and puffed quietly, but he unlocked the cuffs. Sherlock rubbed his wrists, and glanced around the room. Only two exits. The door he and Sebastian had walked through, and the one Moriarty had just walked out of. Clever engineering. It looked like the mechanical door wouldn't open from either side without a key card. He'd have to lift Sebastian's later…

"Please, have a seat," Jim gestured to the nearest couch. "Would you care for some tea? Wine? Scotch? Anything you like."

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Oh, but I insist."

"Tea, then."

"Sebastian, if you'd be so kind."

Moran left the room with a rather sour expression on his face. Sherlock sat down gingerly on a leather couch. Moriarty settled into the armchair across from him.

"So, how was your trip?" Jim drawled, widening his eyes slightly. He could almost look innocent like that. Smiling. Small. Well dressed. If Sherlock didn't know better, he might say harmless.

"Long and rather dark."

"Sorry about all that abduction business. _I_ wanted to send a nice car. But Sebby just insisted on throwing you in the back of a van. If you ask me, I'd say he's a bit jealous."

"I wonder why," Sherlock kept his expression blank. Soon the pleasantries would be over. He shuddered to think what would happen after that.

"So… here we are…" Jim said in his odd little singsong voice. "In one of my best safe houses. Just you, me, Seb, and the best-armed security money can buy. How ever shall we pass the time? I assume there is a time limit. That awful brother of yours would never let me _keep_ you."

Sherlock chose silence as a response.

"Well that's no _fun_. I though you wanted to play." Jim's lips turned slightly downwards into a pout that looked far too childish for a man his age.

"Seeing as I'm your hostage, it seems you could do whatever you like," Sherlock said crisply. "I don't have any control of the situation."

"Oh, but that's not true, is it? You wouldn't have come without a _plan_. So tell me, Sherlock. Let's see how clever you are… tell me how you figured out the chemical compound and developed an antidote, but you'll never ever reveal it, no matter how much I torture you…"

The time to go for the Oscar had arrived.

Sherlock allowed his eyes to go wide, breath to quicken. _Show fear. Confusion. And then… denial. But don't be hammy about it. Subtle things_.

He straightened up in his seat.

"I've no idea what you're talking about. I couldn't figure out what was in that damned compound. You probably shouldn't have killed whoever you got it from." Sometimes the easiest lie to sell was the truth.

"When you're in business of mayhem, love, you can't afford a lot of competition. Bastard deserved what he got… but you don't really expect me to believe you waltzed in here unarmed, willing, and ready to play abduction. Please. You're scouting territory for your brother. I'm only letting you get away with it because you're cute. Now go on. Explain to me what wonderful experiment you preformed to lead you to a _simple_, _obvious_ answer about what the drug's made out of. It's your favorite part. Go ahead. Enjoy it."

Sherlock stayed silent. Everything seemed to be headed in a wonderfully tidy direction.

Sebastian entered the room once again, carrying a tea tray. He set it down on the coffee table beside them and stood at attention. Awaiting further orders.

"Sebby, he's being boring. I think we'll have to do this the hard way."

Moran smiled. He kneeled and reached under one of the various couches for a small black bag. Sherlock tried not to let the apprehension show on his face.

"Oh _relax_," Jim waved a hand dismissively, "Sebastian's a trained nurse. We just need an itty, bitty blood sample. That's all."

Sherlock squirmed. Looked away. "I told you, I didn't make an antidote. And if I did, why would I take it? That would be as good as handing the formula over to you."

Jim laughed. "Nervous, are we? That's rather telling, my dear."

"I… I don't like needles. I might faint," Sherlock said helplessly.

Utter crap. All of it. But god, Moriarty bought it. Looked like the cat that ate the goddamned canary, and all of the goldfish too.

"Be a doll and slide that jacket off for us. Unless, that is, you want Sebastian to do it for you." Jim tilted his head, smirking.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but he shrugged out of his blazer reluctantly, unbuttoned his left cuff, and began to roll up his sleeve. He held his arm out placidly as Sebastian readied the needle.

He had too look away as Sebastian drew the blood. Just _seeing _a needle go into his skin… well it reminded him of things. Made something deep inside him twist and begin to whisper about half forgotten cravings.

"Mmm," Jim sighed. "I've always wanted to see you bleed."

Sherlock flicked his eyes over to Jim's face. The man watched the proceedings with rapt attention, with a dangerous gleam about him.

"I could make it wonderful, you know," Jim continued. "Pain is a the most effective anesthetic for the terrors of the mind. I could make all the bad things go away. All I'd need is a scalpel and some time."

"Of course, that certainly doesn't sound like a death sentence," Sherlock scoffed.

"No. I want your death to be quick. A nice build with a sudden end. But your pain? That can be long. Drawn out. Like a symphony. You know, it's a funny thing—hurting someone. If you do it the wrong way, if you're brutal and reckless, all they'll feel is the horror of it. But if you're careful? Well… if you're careful enough, people are like frogs. They'll sit in the hot water until it boils, not sure about whether they're feeling pleasure or agony."

Sebastian withdrew the needle, placing a small cotton swab on the puncture. Sherlock held it down and waited for the bleeding to stop. Jim sat placid and tranquil as Moran exited the room again, presumably to send off the sample for testing.

"Come now. You've lost blood. Have something to drink, it's not poisoned," Jim motioned to the tray.

Sherlock picked up a tea cup and sipped tentatively. Not bad. But mostly he wanted to be contrary. So he set it back down after a few more gulps.

"Tell me true, Sherlock," Jim chuckled as he picked up his own cup, "you've liked the hurting so far, haven't you? Hasn't it made you feel alive? Hasn't the big, nasty puzzle given you something to struggle for?"

"I was enjoying myself until last night," Sherlock said coldly.

"Ah… your pet… your Jawwwwnnny boy. Had to be done. He would have followed you. Besides. He's nearly as much fun to hurt as you are. He shows it more. God, he's so responsive. He's like a perfect canvas. Really, I think I can finally understand appeal. God, it must be _intoxicating_ to make him feel so much… cause him so much suffering…" Jim trailed off.

It felt like an ice cube had dropped into Sherlock's stomach. "You said you'd leave him alone."

"Oh, don't get yourself all twisted up about it. He's perfectly safe. Probably still sitting in a hotel and crying over you." Jim crossed his legs and sipped his tea casually. "The question is… what we're going to do with _you_. I mean, I did go to all this trouble. It'd be a shame not to utterly ravage you."

"Like I said, you seem to be holding all the cards here. If you're going to rape me, I don't see what there is I can do about it."

"You could struggle," Jim shrugged, "that might be a bit of fun."

"It wouldn't accomplish anything."

"No. It wouldn't. But then again, I don't do the whole sexual assault thing anyway. It's just so pedestrian. Doesn't take any skill to pull it off. I'd much rather make you beg _yes, please_ than _please no_."

"Then we seem to have reached a stale mate. Because I don't want to have sex with you. Shall we play cards or something?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I've always found chess more interesting… and you do want me."

"No."

"Even if Johnny boy never found out about it?"

"Inconsequential."

"You're not the least bit _curious_?"

"It would no doubt be an exceedingly informative endeavor, but not worth the risk. You'd probably videotape the whole thing and broadcast it on national television."

"What if I give you my word as a gentlemen that nobody would ever find out?" Moriarty smiled.

"Your word as a criminal would no doubt be worth more. But only idiots trust criminals."

"Hmm, so it's yes, and now we're just negotiating the conditions," Moriarty leaned back in his chair and set his cup aside.

"I think you're just incapable of understanding what _no_ means. Have you ever seen a therapist? I imagine you have a rather rampant case of narcissistic personality disorder."

"I might. If I weren't _actually_ capable of destroying the word, I suppose you could call all of my little workings delusions of grandeur. Then again, I'm not the only one in the room who's just a bit _unstable_… you know, if Johnny ever found out, you could tell him I forced you into it."

"He wouldn't believe me," Sherlock snorted.

"Huh. Smarter than I would have given him credit for… has it occurred to you that he might leave you anyway?"

"What?" Sherlock stiffened.

"I mean, no offense Sherly, but it's not like you two have the most rock-solid relationship. From what I can tell, it's closer to Stockholm syndrome than anything else. Now that he's gotten away, he might realize what you've been doing to him and run for the hills. In which case, you'd be rejecting your one opportunity to have _me_, in favor or remaining faithful to someone that very likely is going to resent you and possibly never want to see you again."

Each word sank into Sherlock's chest like a piece of gravel. Internal road rash. He couldn't help himself. He shifted in his chair. Fidgeting.

"Even the most faithful pets can bite once master spurns them," Jim ran his tongue across his lower lip. "That's why I keep Sebby there on such a short leash. It's important to never let them realize what lengths they'd go to for you. Because once they find their limit, they gain just a little bit of power back. And once they gain that centimeter, they'll take the rest by force."

"John isn't my pet," Sherlock said through his teeth. "Unlike you, I don't actually keep humans as dogs."

"Oh? What is he then? Your _lover_? Your _soul mate?_ Please," Jim rolled his eyes. "You've simply grown too attached to him to see. He's not like us. He'll never be able to play on our level. And one day, you'll wake up no longer infatuated, and you'll realize that you're a bird that's chained itself to a rock. He won't let you _fly_ like I would."

"If you and I flew together, we'd be headed straight into the sun."

"Yes. But wouldn't it be grand?"

"I suppose we'll never know."

Jim let out a long suffering sigh, hanging his head slightly. "Really, Sherlock, your self control is admirable. But it's so tedious. Just say yes once. I'll take care of the rest."

Sherlock didn't trust himself to answer. He knew what was happening. This was all just one big mind game. He couldn't trust anything Jim had said.

_But what if?_

The thought of John never coming back was unbearable. Still. That didn't mean he should do something that would further cement John's resentment of him. He had to stay strong. To prove that he was better than this—prove that he could resist the psychotic allure of Jim Moriarty.

Then Jim stood. Slowly sauntered over to the couch, crowding into Sherlock's personal space. He flinched slightly when Jim's knees dropped down on either side of him. God. So close. He could smell Jim's aftershave. Pleasant. Slightly musky. No doubt expensive. He could feel the heat radiating off the smaller man's body. It would be so easy to just reach out and touch him. Pull him in all the way. But he didn't. Sherlock stayed perfectly still as Jim kneeled there, straddling him.

Jim ran a finger along Sherlock's jaw, tilting his chin upwards. "Has anybody ever told you that you're pretty when you're frightened?"

"No. Then again, not many people see me like this."

"I suppose you're right. It's really just me that can make you feel all panicky and raw, isn't it? At least these days."

"Probably for the best. It's more difficult to think like this."

"Yes. Couldn't risk dulling that wonderful brain of yours for something as simple and animalistic as sexual impulses… except maybe just this once. After this, it will be all about your mind, darling. I'll take you apart piece by piece until you're not even sure what's real anymore."

"I can't wait."

Jim leaned down slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to pull away. He pressed their mouths together a gentle, chaste kiss. Nothing like how it was before. All they had was time…

"Stop," Sherlock breathed, "I'd rather have the drug."

Jim pulled back slightly, eyebrows furrowed. "Really?"

"I… I know what you really want. I can't give you that. Not if I'm going to remember."

Jim seemed to consider for a moment. Sherlock held his breath. It was a rather obvious ploy. But perhaps so obvious, Jim wouldn't even suspect it.

"How long until what you've taken wares off?" Jim asked carefully.

"Perhaps eighteen hours."

"That's a long wait, doll."

"You've waited months. Surely you can wait just a little bit longer I'd… I'd really appreciate it." Sherlock placed his hands on Jim's waist and gave him the very _best_ face he could muster. Eyes half lidded. Lips parted. _Be seduction. Be inciting_. "Please?"

Jim ran his fingers carefully through Sherlock's curls. "Hmm. You have put me in a rather pleasant mood. And we have to wait for the test results anyway… but what are we supposed to do to pass the time?"

"There's nothing stopping you from having fun without me," Sherlock said carefully. "I could watch."

Jim wetted his lips. "So you want a show, is it?"

"Perhaps I'd like a little preview of what I'm in for."

He slid his hands up and down, rubbing gently over Jim's sides. Trailing up to his ribcage, and down to his narrow hips. He had Jim's complete attention. Exactly where he needed to be for this to work. Exactly where he needed to be for Jim to willingly show him where he'd stashed the drug. But _god_ it felt dangerous. Just one slip, and Jim might figure it all out.

"Well go on, then," Jim grinned wickedly. "Undress me."

Sherlock's hands did not shake as he slowly slid Moriarty's jacket off of his shoulders. He laid the blazer across the arm of the couch, and then slowly began unbuttoning Moriarty's crisp, white shirt. He looked, but tried not to focus on the pale skin slowly revealed. Not quite dissociation. Not yet. He needed to be here and present.

"You're such an interesting man, Sherlock Holmes," Jim said quietly. Perhaps to himself.

Sherlock undid the buttons on his cuffs, and slid his shirt off. He let it fall to the ground, mostly just to see what would happen. Jim said nothing. Just kept him locked in that wide, dark, gaze.

"It's ok to touch," Jim traced his thumb across Sherlock's cheek, "I know you want to."

"Not exactly a show if I'm participating, is it?" The detective replied evenly.

"I suppose not…"

Sherlock unbuckled Jim's belt carefully and slid it off. He couldn't really unbutton his trousers and unzip them without brushing against Jim's obvious erection. But he could refrain from showing emotion. Just kept his face perfectly blank.

"Why do you fight so hard to stay in control, darling? It's more fun to lose hold of it, every once in a while."

Sherlock tugged Jim's trousers down around his knees as a response. Jim had on the same bright green pants he'd had on the first time they met.

"A bit sentimental, don't you think?" Sherlock fingered the elastic waistband.

"Only for you."

Sherlock pulled Jim's pants off carefully. Bracing himself. Jim stood for a moment, to kick off his shoes and let his clothes fall in a pile on the floor. Then Sherlock had a lap full of very naked Jim Moriarty and it was hard to keep his blood pressure from skyrocketing.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't really help it. His cock began to fill out.

Jim smiled, wrapping a loose fist around his own erection and giving it a languid stroke. His lips parted slightly. He squirmed in Sherlock's lap.

"Have you ever thought about fucking me?" He asked in a low voice.

Sherlock remained outwardly calm. But god. Inside, everything was burning. Crashing. Because, yes. Of course he had. Not like he could help it when they were sitting like this. It would be so easy. To unzip his own trousers, pull Jim just a bit further forward. He'd probably be fantastic.

But no. Focus. Clear mind, quiet thoughts.

"Do you want to know what I did today before you got here? I spent a good half an hour stretching myself… getting _ready_… because I'm going to have you, Sherlock. I'm going to utterly destroy you. But there's nothing to say we can't destroy each other."

Jim reached back with his other hand. Sherlock couldn't see exactly what he was doing. But it wasn't difficult to tell. From Jim's change in facial expression. From his motions. He'd slipped a finger inside himself.

It suddenly made perfect sense why Jim had agreed to this. _This_ was just another form of torture. Of ridiculous teasing. Sherlock wouldn't fall for it.

But he couldn't really stop his body from responding. Blood rushed to the surface of his skin, making him flush. Quickened breathing. If Jim brushed across a pulse point, he would know. He could probably tell anyway, judging by the smug look on his face.

"I'm still all slick," Jim bit his lip, "I used plenty of lube. Want to feel?"

"I'll take your word for it," Sherlock's voice sounded a bit hoarse, strained.

Jim chuckled and withdrew his fingers. He moved in a bit closer to Sherlock, still lazily stroking himself. He draped an arm across the back of the couch, around Sherlock's shoulders, and began rocking up and down ever so slightly.

"I know how to ride a cock, dear. It'd be good."

"You don't actually want me to fuck you, you're using it as a bargaining chip," Sherlock sounded a lot more certain than he felt.

"Maybe. But why does that matter? I'm going to fuck _you_ either way. Why not take whatever else I'll give you?"

"Because you can make me play the game, Jim. But only to a certain degree."

Jim rolled his eyes. Then his face slackened, as if in pleasure. He let out a few small, breathy sounds. "Oh… oh god, Sherlock… yes, right there… _ugh_… your big fat cock feels so good inside me…"

It was a put on. God. Sherlock had used the same damn trick on John. But—well perhaps now he understood why it had been so effective. He felt almost magnetically pulled towards Jim's body. He wanted. Fuck. He wanted so badly.

He heard the door in the far corner of the room open quietly. Sebastian poked his head out with a nervous look on his face. Sherlock glanced his way and raised his eyebrows. Jim turned his head.

"Oh, Sebby. Did we get jealous and nosey? Ah well. You're just in time to join the fun. Come here."

Sebastian approached tentatively, his eyes roaming over Jim's lithe, naked body. He looked hungry. Almost predatory.

"Sherlock here doesn't believe that I give as good as I get," Jim stuck his lower lip out slightly. "Let's show him. Sit." He indicated the other side of the couch.

Sebastian sank down. Nervous and entirely aroused. Jim crawled over to sit in Sebastian's lap. Sherlock breathed an internal sigh of relief. But the feeling didn't last long. Because Jim unzipped Moran's trousers and pulled out a sizeable erection.

He slid a condom out of Sebastian's pocket, ripped it, and rolled it on to the larger man's prick. Sebastian shuddered at the contact.

"There's a good boy," Jim soothed. "Just relax and let daddy have his fun."

Then he moved forward, so his and Sebastian's torsos were nearly pressed together. He reached down and grasped Sebastian's cock, holding it steady as he sank down onto it. Sherlock watched, unable to move, not breathing, as Jim's body accepted the intrusion. He slid down onto Sebastian almost effortlessly.

Jim turned his head and smiled at Sherlock. "This is how you use a toy, love."

And with that, he began to roll his hips. Fucking himself on Sebastian's prick, taking his own pleasure. It was quite a sight indeed. Sebastian's large hands drifted upward, to rest on Jim's waist. Jim moaned breathily as he started to pick up pace.

Even as Jim rode Sebastian's cock, he stared at Sherlock. They locked eyes and neither seemed capable of breaking the gaze.

"_Oh fuck_," Jim whimpered as he angled forward slightly. He grabbed a handful of Sebastian's light blonde hair and tugged. Dipped down for just a moment to sink his sharp canines into the skin on Sebastian's neck.

The larger man groaned. Clutched at Jim. Began to thrust upwards to meet his motions. Jim shrugged slightly, as if to say—_aren't our pets just darling?_

Sherlock felt his heart beating in his throat. Every pulse rang _danger_. _Run away_. But he couldn't. It was utterly captivating to see Jim like this. Spun out on endorphins. Chasing after a manic sort of carnality. Jim was physically fucking Sebastian... but he was having his way with Sherlock's mind in the process. They both knew it.

Jim dug his fingernails into Sebastian's chest and scratched a few bright red lines. _This is what it will be like for us, but better._ Jim leaned down and stole a sloppy, utterly filthy snog. _This is what I'm going to do to you_. Jim let out a few, choice, pornographic keening noises. _You're going to love it._

Sherlock had to fight to keep still. To keep from trailing a hand down between his legs and adjusting himself. Maybe giving himself a quick squeeze. Just to try to take the edge off.

"The beauty of it all," Jim whimpered, "is I always get to come first. Don't I Sebby?"

It wasn't even a direct command. More a gentle reminder. But Sebastian reached down and wrapped a hand around Jim's cock, stroking it in time with their motions.

Jim slowly grew more frantic. Approaching the edge. Still in control, but only just.

"Are you close, Boss?" Sebastian almost whispered.

"Mmm, yes," Jim's breath hitched. "Just a bit harder."

Sebastian gladly obliged. Giving Jim just that little bit extra. Stroking him just a bit faster. Jim kept his eyes on Sherlock, even as he shuddered and gasped. Then he went still. Let out a long moan, and his cock jerked in Sebastian's hand, painting the other man's suit in stripes of ejaculate.

Something in Sherlock's chest lurched at the sight of it. His head felt like it was swimming in a fog of arousal. Even as Sebastian thrust frantically into Jim, shuddered, and then went limp against the couch—all he could see was Moriarty. Smiling. Fucked out. Lazy. Flushed and covered in sweat.

He'd seen Jim at his most vulnerable and realized something awful.

Jim _wasn't_ vulnerable at all. Even the most instinctual, human act of all didn't break him down completely. He'd just watched Jim use another living person as a sex toy. It had all just been a show.

A show for a very specific audience.

"If you want to take care of that yourself, by all means..." Jim nodded at the bulge in Sherlock's trousers.

"No. I think I'll leave it for now."

"Want some help?"

"No."

"Such a saint," Jim sighed, and slumped against Sebastian. "How long before you're ready for another round, pet? I'm feeling quite frisky today."

"Jeeze, Boss," Sebastian chuckled. "I'll let you know."

There weren't any clocks. Sherlock didn't know what time it was. Moriarty would reliably keep time, since they were now waiting for his "antidote" to wear off. He wondered dimly if the entire day would go like this, or if perhaps, Jim would get bored of it.

He simply needed to survive. To hold out. He could do that.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment and thought of John. It was all for John. So he would be safe. And in some, quite, internal part of himself he whispered... _I love you. Forgive me._

* * *

_I know, my darlings. The angst is awful. But don't worry. I think we're approaching on some good old fashioned JOHN TO THE RESCUE!_

_So basically, I suck at answering mail and reviews. I've been completely awful about it. One of these days, I'm going to go through and return every message. Because I feel terrible. Know that I love you! I'm not ignoring you! I just work two jobs and don't have much time to do anything besides write if I want to have any semblance of a social life :(_

_That being said, reviews, follows and favorites are still incredibly sexy. I love them and cuddle them late at night when the anxiety almost becomes too much and I can't sleep._

_All of you are wonderful._

_Tune in next Wednesday, and I promise I'm almost done hurting you. The comfort is on the way!_

_xoxo_


	22. Grey Areas

_Fair Warning: well, friends, we've finally reached it. The chapter where there is no smut. Only feelings and plot and I'm sorry. However... I think I'm going to be posting some deleted smut scenes either later today or tomorrow. Things like the Sheriarty and Johnstrade that I almost put in, but decided not to, because I didn't want to break your heart. Just watch my page for something to the effect of __**The Taming of John Watson: Deleted Scenes**__, if you need your smut fix. Other than that, I'm just going to warn for discussion of abusive relationships. Please don't take relationship advice from a fanfic. Some of the things said here are not quite right, and are only applicable because of what I feel Sherlock and John have. They are not meant to be applied in a general sense. Ever. Thanks. That's all :D_

* * *

John didn't sleep very well. The entire night swirled with vague nightmares. Afghanistan mixed with the night by the pool. Jim Moriarty's laughter. Chasing Sherlock's silhouette through dark London alleys. Danger everywhere.

But after the sun came up, he closed the curtains and stared at the dark ceiling for a while. He turned on the telly as white noise. Anything to block out the lonely feeling that threatened to crowd in around him.

The choice, in and of itself, was a relatively simple one.

Try to forgive Sherlock—which god it would be too easy—or cut his losses. It wouldn't end well. It would inevitably end with John being alone. Perhaps later on down the road, perhaps sooner than he dared to contemplate.

But he'd be giving up so much.

He didn't know how he'd built his life around Sherlock so entirely. It had happened gradually. But somehow, he'd become the definition of codependent.

If he wanted a clean break, he'd have to get a new flat. A better job. New friends. Perhaps he'd start limping around again. Because really, he hadn't gotten completely better. The war had still left him broken. Sherlock had distracted him thoroughly. But it wasn't like he'd resolved all of the trauma. If anything, he'd added to it.

The funny thing about big decisions is, no matter how long you think them over, they don't get any easier. Nothing becomes clearer. If anything, all your thoughts become muddled and smear into each other.

John's ideas began to run in circles. If he left Sherlock, he'd be fucked. If he didn't leave Sherlock, he'd be fucked. And god, what if Sherlock left _him_? There wasn't a good choice. Just an easy one and a hard one. His mother had always said that good people make hard decisions, rather than taking the easy way out.

But in this area—John wasn't even sure he had the strength for it.

He got up eventually and stepped into the shower. He let the water run hot until his skin turned pink.

Everything would remind him of Sherlock. He'd let the man seep into his pores.

Even as the water beat over him, all he could think of was the wonderful shower he'd had at the Holmes estate. When Sherlock pressed him up against the wall and fucked him almost sweetly. Or the time… after one of their bigger fights… when Sherlock had gotten down on his knees and gave him a proper rim job.

He'd miss the sex.

As much as he hated to admit it, he _loved_ being the submissive partner in a relationship. Being able to just lie back and let Sherlock ravage him… it had been wonderful. He would never do it again. He knew that much. Sherlock would be the only one that could ever bend him that way. The only one who could break down every single one of his defenses until he was laid bare and pliant… god. He'd let Sherlock make him so fucking vulnerable. And all he'd had was a never spoken, implicit trust that Sherlock would be gentle enough not to break him beyond repair.

_But I love you_.

John had almost shattered when Sherlock said those words. Almost crumpled down onto the floor, to stay there. Never think about leaving again.

The raw _emotion_ in Sherlock's eyes. It still made his stomach turn in on itself. The man of ivory, cold, stiff, calculated… he'd actually cried. Just one tear. But still. John doubted anybody else had ever gotten that much out of him.

He didn't know if he should be proud of that. Probably not. Because really, it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough just to make Sherlock feel _something_. Not enough of an anchor to hold him in a drowning relationship.

He shouldn't go back. He could send Harry over to get his things. She'd probably let him move in for a while. At least until he got on his feet again. Perhaps he could go out to the country. Set up a local practice. Have a nice, quiet life.

_But I love you_.

John shuddered. Sherlock's face played in his head over and over again. A glitching film reel. The way Sherlock stood in the door as if he'd forgotten how to move. The way he'd looked on in silent horror as John packed a suitcase.

Maybe it wasn't that Sherlock didn't feel things. Maybe he'd just never learned how to communicate them.

John wouldn't be surprised. The Holmes household didn't seem like it was a particularly happy place. Maybe Sherlock hadn't been born with something missing, like he said. Maybe he wasn't actually a sociopath. Perhaps he was just taught to bury things at such a young age that it had convinced him he could go his whole life without the need for emotions.

Then again… these didn't need to be John's problems to fix.

Just because he had a bit of a savior complex, it didn't mean he was obligated to pull Sherlock out from behind the marble wall he'd built around himself.

_But I love you._

John turned off the water and let out a long sigh.

He needed to talk to somebody. Anybody really. But someone who had a vague understanding of his situation would probably be helpful. His thoughts drifted.

He dressed himself and had breakfast at the hotel. Beans and toast. Weak tea. It didn't matter. He'd hit the auto pilot button. Going through the motions, but not really aware. He got out his mobile and stared at it. No new messages. Of course not. Who would text him in the middle of the night besides Sherlock?

Still. _No new messages._

Maybe, some sick part of him would like to be chased. Maybe even though he'd asked for space, he wouldn't have been cross if Sherlock had followed him out the door. Showed up in his hotel room. Begged forgiveness. Smothered him before he could thoroughly think about anything.

He scrolled through his contact list. Army friends. Ex-girlfriends. People he knew before the war. People he hadn't spoke to in months. He started to text Harry but he couldn't decide what to say. It all sounded too pathetic. And then he stopped. Because the perfect name jumped out of a list of otherwise useless people.

Greg Lestrade.

Really, Greg was in quite the unique position to understand John's problem. He knew Sherlock. Knew Moriarty. Knew, to some degree, how both men worked. He never felt good about dumping his problems on other people.

But maybe Greg would just go for a pint with him. Maybe they could both get to the point of intoxication where it didn't matter, and John could let it all spill out. Every ugly little thing he felt. Every perverse desire and broken dream.

**Hey, mate. How's things?**

It sounded far too casual. Like he was trying to hard. But he didn't have the mental faculties to come up with anything better.

He paid for his breakfast and was out, walking aimlessly down the street before he got any response.

**Not so bad. Got a few days off. You?**

Well. That worked out rather nicely.

**Been better. Is it too early in the day to start drinking?**

**That question would shame your Scottish ancestors, Watson. Want to grab a pint down at my local?**

**Sure. I'm just walking. Shouldn't take me too long to get there.**

**I'll get the first round. **

* * *

John walked through the door of Greg's favorite pub, and the transition from bright light to dimness was quite welcome. Not very many people. It was only about ten in the morning. Greg sat at the bar on the far end, sipping a pint. He waved at John and smiled. John tried to return the greeting, but somehow felt he probably failed miserably.

He approached and sank down on the stool next to Greg. The DI motioned to the bar tender, and John had a glass full of ale before him in thirty seconds flat.

"Cheers," Greg raised his pint.

John toasted him and took a long gulp. The beer slid cool and calming across his tongue. He drained a good part of the glass in one go.

Greg clapped him on the shoulder. "No offense, mate, but you look like shit."

"Yeah," John nodded, "I feel like shit."

"Long night?"

"Didn't sleep so much," John nodded and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I slept _too_ much," Greg rolled his eyes. "My first vacation in two bloody years, and of course Mycroft is busy. He promised. 'Yes, Greg, of course. Nothing will get in the way. I'll take a vacation at the same time as you. I'll even turn my phone off' but I guess that meant fuck-all. Not that I really blame him. It's not like he can control when the world goes to shit."

John took another gulp of beer, trying to steady himself. "Yeah. Well… I suppose it was my fault he had to leave you last night. I was out on a pub crawl and he had to call down the secret service because one of the most wanted men in England showed up to have a little chat with me."

"He told me," Greg nodded. "Piece of work, that Moriarty. And what's his name… Moran?"

"Yeah. That's putting it a bit mildly."

"He didn't… well did he hurt you or something?"

"Not exactly," John shrugged. "Just kind of made me confront some things I would have rather ignored."

"Like what?"

John finished his beer and the bar tender promptly replaced it. He stared down into the foam for a few minutes, trying to rein in his emotions. He wasn't near drunk enough to start crying. Greg waited patiently.

"Well…" John started shakily, "he showed me a video. Of Moriarty and Sherlock at a club. You remember, when you had us go investigate that drug ring. I think it was that night. Anyway, they were dancing. And then they kissed. That's all they did, as far as I could tell, but it looked like they wanted to do a whole lot more—if you know what I mean."

"Oh, John," Greg sighed, "I'm sorry."

"I suppose I shouldn't get so bent out of shape about it," John said thickly. "But I left Sherlock. Packed up a bag and spent the night in a hotel. I told him I needed some space and he let me go. And now… well I suppose I'm not quite sure what to do."

"Shit," Greg took a long gulp of his beer. "Do you—I mean—is this it, then? Are you two done?"

"Can't decide," John forced a laugh. "On one hand, it was just a kiss. And maybe I'm being a bit childish about it. On the other hand, most of what Sherlock's done to me could probably be considered abuse and I might be more than a bit insane for not leaving him sooner. Sorry. God. I shouldn't be dumping all of this on you I just… I'm a fucking mess, Greg… I can't…" John trailed off.

Greg said nothing. Just draped an arm around John's shoulder and pulled him into an awkward half hug. He motioned for another round. They drank in a tense sort of quiet for a little while.

"Well I can't tell you what to do," Greg said carefully. "Because lord knows, we're probably both the same kind of crazy for putting up with the Holmes boys. But I will say, that over the years, I have trained Mycroft up a bit."

"What do you mean?"

"It the beginning he never told me things. I went on thinking that he didn't care about me at all for quite a long time. Most of the time, he does act like a complete sociopath. He's manipulative. Cruel. And he'll do anything to get his way. But he does have some feelings. They're just buried deep and I've had to dig them out with an ice pick. I'm still not sure I could properly call what we have love… because it's still twisted and rather selfish. But it's something close, every one in a while."

John digested that all for a moment. Wondered what it might be like. To teach Sherlock how to express himself more effectively. To dig through the layers of cold rock down to the molten core of him that he only ever glimpsed by accident.

"Sherlock said he loved me," John mumbled into his glass. "Do you think he meant it? Do you think he even understands the concept of it?"

"Hard to say, I suppose. But he is better—when he's with you. It's a subtle change. He's just a bit softer around the edges. He's not quite so angry or eager to hurt people. You're his conscience. I think you make him just a bit more human. It probably frightens the hell out of him… but I do know he'd hate to lose you. "

"Yeah. But does he hate the idea enough to stay the hell away from Jim Moriarty?" John snorted. "Those two are like goddamned magnets now that they've found each other. I doubt anything's going to keep them apart until one of them dies."

"Mycroft used to have this other bloke," Greg shrugged. "Real smart. I think he was a prince or something. A Saudi Arabian prince. Rich. Pretty as hell. Sophisticated. Loads of political influence. Any time that bastard came into town, I knew I wouldn't be hearing from Mycroft for days. But then… well… Mr. Prince gave Mycroft an ultimatum. Either him or me. Guess who's still here?" Greg half raised an eyebrow.

John stared for a moment, "you're serious?"

"Yeah. I couldn't believe it myself but… the thing is, John… people like Sherlock and Mycroft might be attracted to shiny things. People who can play on their level. But at the end of the day, that's not what they really want. They both need an anchor. Somebody to keep them stable. I suspect that's why Mycroft thinks I'm so bloody useful. Because I'm normal. We're normal John. And in the end, your own utter simplicity is the best gift you can ever give a genius."

John chewed on his lip. He'd never figured Greg for being much of a philosopher. But damn. That was all rather poetic. Made quite a bit of sense, even. Or perhaps, as Greg had said, they were both simply the same kind of crazy. And John was looking for any excuse not to leave Sherlock for good.

"Maybe it's bad advice," Greg cleared his throat, "but I've always thought you should just do what makes you happy and fuck everything else. Does Sherlock make you happy?"

"Mad as it is, yeah. He does."

"Well, then," Greg shrugged. "There you have it."

"It can't really be that simple… can it?" John shook his head, not sure if he wanted to smile or bury his face in his hands and just give up.

"Hell if I know. I'm a forty-nine year old, divorced workaholic, and I'm in a strange little pseudo-relationship with the man who single handedly runs the British government. I'm either doing something exceedingly right, or very wrong. But I'll tell you, what. I'm happy. Or, at least moderately content—which really is the best I'd dare to hope for."

"Greg Lestrade," John sighed, "you are a beautiful person, and it's utterly sickening."

"It is, isn't it?" Greg snorted. "But as my father always used to say, there's never much point in talking when you can drink your problems to an early grave."

Greg raised his glass. John followed suit. They both drained their pints. John couldn't help but let out a small laugh.

"It's not even noon. What are we going?"

"Getting drunk. I'm on vacation. And if Mycroft's busy, there's no possible reason why I shouldn't be absolutely fucking knackered."

"Right then," John rolled his eyes. But he did buy the next round. He owed Greg that much. And well, the round after that… mostly he bought because he wanted to waste time.

The round after that, he was properly tipsy and having rather a lot of fun. Greg was a fantastic drinking partner. Quick with a sarcastic joke as he was to dig into his wallet and buy his share of beer. Before long, the pub started to get a bit more crowded. There was a football game on.

Everyone yelled at the small television screen in the corner and made fast friends with other people who were yelling about the same thing.

John felt a bit like he was back at university. The days that were a lot more care free than they actually seemed. Before the war. Before he even started his medical training. Back in his first year, when all he really did was go out with his mates, drink, and talk about sports.

If that John Watson, the life of the party ladies man without so much as a brain cell in his head, met the current one—he'd wonder what the fuck went wrong.

Then again, they say suffering is what really makes a person real.

It's when you look the ugliness in the world head on and accept it, that you really become and adult.

Beautiful things are often worth the pain. Because no great highs are achieved without any great lows. John would much rather live dangerously than be stuck in a rut of mindless alcoholism without much to look forward to.

He began to slow down on his pints a bit. Greg did as well. They weren't exactly old. But they weren't _young_ men anymore. They'd drank the day away, and soon they'd be suffering for it.

They stumbled out onto the street, arm and arm, and stopped to have a pizza at the little Italian place near Greg's flat. The grease and cheese had a soothing effect on John's roiling stomach. He began to sober up just a bit.

He didn't really want to go back to the hotel to spend another sleepless night staring at the ceiling. But he also wasn't quite ready to go back to 221B. Not quite ready to see Sherlock face to face.

So when Greg said, "want to come back to my place? I got a nice bottle of whiskey and every James Bond movie ever made" John was more than happy to follow him home.

Greg had a nice little flat. It wasn't very exactly the picture of luxury, but it was cozy. He had a kitchen and a living room. Just the one bedroom. Most of the space was crowded with furniture. Armchairs, couches, all well worn and crowded around the television. Looked like a bit of a bachelor pad. Where people might all come over to watch a game.

John sank down onto one of the couches as Greg wandered into the kitchen to grab the whiskey. The good doctor pulled out his mobile. Still no new messages. He didn't want to be the first to text. Not really… but perhaps he should just make sure Sherlock was ok?

**Spent the day with Greg. Hope you're all right. We'll talk tomorrow.**

He set his mobile on the table and tried not to think about it. Greg returned with two glasses and a large bottle of whiskey. They put in _Goldfinger_ and continued their little binge. They were about halfway through the moive when John's mobile chimed. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

He stared at the mobile hesitantly for perhaps a minute.

"Sherlock?" Greg asked quietly.

"Yeah. I texted him just to check up on things. Make sure he's not doing anything entirely stupid," John shrugged.

Greg nodded and returned his gaze to the television. "If you need a minute…"

"No, it's fine."

John reached out for his mobile and unlocked the screen. One new picture message. What possible reason would Sherlock have to send him a picture?

He clicked the download button and waited. The picture filled in quickly. Sherlock. On a couch, tangled up in a mostly naked Jim Moriarty. He looked shocked. His mouth open as if he'd been saying something as the picture was taken.

John's heart stopped.

He could have jumped to horrible conclusions. He hadn't even left Sherlock alone for a full twenty-four hours. And it looked very bad indeed. Looked like Sherlock had gone right to Moriarty's open arms the second he got the chance.

But something in his expression… well he certainly didn't look happy. He looked scared. Panicked, even. Because of the picture? Because there'd be evidence of what he'd done? Or another reason entirely?

Perhaps John was looking at a hostage situation.

He felt sick and dizzy. Either way, it was bad news. Either way, Sherlock was almost definitely in a whole lot of trouble.

"Oh god," he muttered, completely unaware of his surroundings.

"What?"

Greg leaned over a bit. John tilted the screen towards him. Greg's eyes widened. "Jesus fucking Christ! Is that…?"

"I don't know what the fuck we're looking at," John said bitterly. Was it rage that he felt boiling just beneath the surface of his skin? That was often the progression of things. John may get sad. But he seldom stayed that way for very long. Anger was the next logical step.

His mobile chimed again.

**I doubt you'll be talking to him any time soon. But don't worry, Johnny. The Boss takes very good care of his pets. He's in excellent hands.**

Moran. That sounded like Moran. That what he'd referred to Jim as before, wasn't it? _Boss._ Fuck. That meant Sherlock must be with both of them. God only knows what was happening.

John was on the very edge looking over. He could fall apart. He could say _fuck it_ and just be done with everything.

But ultimately the part of him that wanted to shoot Jim Moriarty in that smug little face of his, screamed louder than the part that told him it almost certainly wasn't worth it.

"Call Mycroft," he leveled Greg with a stare that would have scared lesser men.

"Why?"

"Because Sherlock's in a lot of fucking trouble and Mycroft would be the one with the most experience in stepping in to save him."

"All right, mate, but I'm not sure he'll answer."

"If he doesn't, I'll just go out and start firing my gun in view of a CCTV camera. That would probably get his attention."

Greg looked just the slightest bit nervous. But he pulled out his mobile and hit the call button. They didn't wait for very long.

"Mycroft," Greg said uncertainly.

"I want to talk to him," John held out his hand.

"Um… John's here, and he really wants a word with you… all right." Greg handed over the mobile.

"Hello, John," Mycroft's voice drifted smooth, smarmy and utterly fake through the speaker.

"Now listen here, Mycroft," John said in his softest, most dangerous voice. "Sherlock is gone. He's with Jim fucking Moriarty. I just got sent a picture message of those two tangled up in each other. Sebastian Moran is almost definitely with them. And I really hope it's not what it looks like. But you are going to find him, and get him out of there right now. He could be drugged with that vile stuff that Moriarty's concocted, and god knows that that psychopath would make him do. His life is in danger. And if he dies before I have the satisfaction of strangling him myself, I'm coming for you next."

Greg's jaw had dropped open. No doubt, because it wasn't exactly smart to speak to Mycroft Holmes in such a manner. John could give a fuck.

"Oh John," Mycroft said carefully, "it's a delicate situation…"

And the gears spun in John's head. Because contrary to popular belief, he was not stupid. And if he'd just given Mycroft new information, there would have been a much different reaction. Shock. Worry. Not damage control. Mycroft already fucking knew. The corners of John's vision began to white out with anger.

"No, Mycroft. A delicate situation is what you're going to have when I start wondering if maybe the trouble keeping you from hanging out with your boyfriend is the same trouble that Sherlock is in. If you already know where Sherlock is, and you're not doing anything to help him—_that_ is going to be a delicate bloody situation."

"Just calm down—"

"Tell me what is happening right now or I'm going to call Sherlock's phone and ask Jim Moriarty myself."

A small pause held out. Mycroft let out a long sigh.

"It had to be done, John. We can't allow a person like Jim Moriarty to have control over a drug that would allow him to bring entire nations to the ground. We sent Sherlock in to find his supply, and if possible, destroy it."

"You sent him in there on purpose…" John said in disbelief.

"He volunteered."

"Of course he bloody did! For being a genius, he's a real goddamned idiot a lot of the time! You're the one that's supposed to know better."

"It's for the good of the whole world, John—"

"Tell me you have some sort of plan for getting him out of there alive."

Another silence drew out. John could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Real panic. And then, Mycroft spoke. "Of course, we'll do everything we can, John. But… the whole building is packed with explosives. If Jim Moriarty decides he wants to die, and he activates them… there's not a whole lot we can do."

John digested that for just a few moments.

"Send me a car. You're taking me to wherever Sherlock is. And you're going to be real quick about it."

"What? No. First of all, you're a civilian, and second of all—"

"I've got combat training, Mycroft. We both know Jim Moriarty would dearly love to torture me. He'd let me into the building just for the faint prospect of having sex with Sherlock in front of me. He underestimates me. It might be enough of an advantage to help me get your stupid brother out of there unscathed. You might be comfortable with sacrificing him for the greater good, but I'm sure as hell _not_."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked with a slight hesitation.

"Of course I'm fucking sure," John sighed.

"I mean, you understand that you could be seriously injured or even killed before you even get to Sherlock. There's a high likely hood that Moriarty won't kill him. You, on the other hand... we'll he's got no reason to keep you alive."

"You know perfectly well what Moriarty wants to do to him," John said flatly. "And even if he survives it, Sherlock's going to be traumatized. Much as he's attracted to Moriarty's mind, he doesn't want _that_. Not with anybody."

"No... he doesn't..." Mycroft agreed softly. "You know, John. There was a time when I tried to protect my brother more thoroughly. When he was younger. But even then, he still got around me. Found plenty of ways to hurt himself even when I watched him closely. I suppose, I've found, it's better to just let him go these days. So that he'll let me watch him and try to minimize the damage."

"Neither of us will ever be able to protect him from himself completely," John felt something odd squirm in his chest, "but you've got to let me try, Mycroft. We can't give up."

Three beats. Three rests. "I'll send a car."

The line went dead.

"What the hell just happened?" Greg asked breathlessly.

"I think I've just demanded that Mycroft send me on a suicide mission, and he agreed," John shrugged.

"Shit."

"Yep."

"Sherlock really doesn't deserve you," Greg shook his head. "I'll come along in the car. Make sure Mycroft gives you the _good_ guns."

"Thanks," John nodded.

They sat quietly. The James Bond movie still playing the the background. Everything felt distant and surreal. But John's uncertainty had evaporated. If there was one thing he'd always been good at, it was keeping himself calm in the midst of a crisis. The pressure would hold him together as long as the danger lurked.

He was going to save Sherlock.

And _then_ he was going to kill him.

If that wasn't real love, he didn't know what was.

* * *

_Dat SUSPENSE. I know. I know, my darlings. But don't worry. I'll actually resolve some of this mess next chapter. Scout's honor. I think we've probably got at least two more chapters. Possibly an epilogue or something. I don't know. I think we're all quite aware that I've never known what's going on and I've created this entire story by accident._

_Your reviews, follows and favorites are the source of many a loud squeal that wakes my roommates up at three in the morning. I don't know what I'd do without you people. I'd probably be in a coffee shop, writing bad poetry and sipping over-priced macchiatos. Did we mention that I'm almost a horrible hipster? My geekdom is my only saving grace and you all just enable it so wonderfully._

_On another note, I've accidentally become a fannibal. If any of you watch the show, I'm posting my first hannigram fic on Friday. It's all sorts of fucked up and I had way too much fun._

_I love you, my marvelous smut friends. Each and every one of you. I'll see you next Wednesday._


	23. Full Circle

_Fair warning: things happen. Mentions of __**non-con**__ and general angst. Also violence. I don't know. Nothing too horrible. Yet again, we have a chapter with no smut. There were too many plot things to be resolved. But don't worry. I'll more than make up for that next week._

* * *

Sherlock's mobile chimed. The noise came from Sebastian's pocket. The detective snapped to instant attention. Moriarty was sitting sideways in his lap, lazy and naked except for his pants. He would squirm occasionally, or nip at Sherlock's neck, but for the most part—he seemed to be occupied with texting. "Criminal Empire doesn't' run itself," Moriarty had chuckled. He made sure to keep the screen angled away, so Sherlock couldn't see what he was doing. Just as well. He didn't even have the energy to focus.

"Boss?" Sebastian's voice drifted lazily from his seat across the room. Moriarty had kicked him off the couch a while ago for being too handsy.

"What?"

"Guess who's just texted?"

Moriarty raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Hmmm… the dog?"

Sebastian cleared his throat, "_Spent the day with Greg. Hope you're all right. We'll talk tomorrow._"

"Oh that's just precious," Jim chuckled. "I'll bet he has no idea where you are. What do you think Sherlock? Shall we tell him?"

Sherlock fought to keep a neutral expression. Fought to mask the sheer terror. Moriarty would do whatever he liked. Whatever hurt most. But maybe if he could distract him…

"Why bother? Just let him think I'm ignoring him." He wrapped his arms around Moriarty's waist and pulled him in a bit closer.

"Aw, that wouldn't be nice. Poor dear heart is probably worried sick over you," Jim bit his lip slightly. "Sebby. I think we should do a little photo shoot."

"Sure thing, Boss."

Sebastian held up Sherlock's mobile. Jim threw his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and smiled wide.

"Wait, no—"

_Click_. _Flash._ A picture. Fuck. A picture. John was already angry with him. If John saw that photograph out of context—he'd probably never speak to Sherlock again. It looked bad. Looked like Sherlock had run off to find Moriarty not even a day after John had left.

Jim looked at him, eyes wide, a terrible smile curled across his face. "Your move. Shall we send the picture and watch the fallout, or do you have something more entertaining for me to do?"

"What do you want?"

"Don't ask stupid questions. You know better." Moriarty tapped him lightly on the cheek.

"But—you said we could wait. That I could have the drug—"

"I'm _bored,_ darling. You really should pay more attention. I've told you about my greatest flaw. I'm rather a victim to my whims, I'm afraid."

Sherlock cast about frantically. So much for carefully laid plans. Either way he lost. Best pick the lesser defeat. Better to let Moriarty send the photograph. He was just as likely to send it anyway, and Sherlock needed to hold out. To find out where he kept the drug.

But the thought of John seeing _that_…

He grabbed the back of Jim's head and pulled him into a sloppy kiss. Not so much a power play as a final act of desperation. Jim moaned into his mouth. Their tongues tangled. It sent a strange shock of sensation through Sherlock's body. Not exactly pleasure. Not exactly fear. Some strange ground in between.

"Oh _my_," Jim laughed breathlessly, pulling away. "It really is fun to play with you, pet… perhaps I should keep you. What do you think? I have a lovely house in Mumbai. Does your brother's influence reach that far?"

Sherlock shrugged and smiled, trying to look coy and seductive. "I wouldn't know. We could find out."

"Hmm. It would be interesting, wouldn't it? The two of us… running across the world, trying to escape notice. But would you play hostage, or willing participant?"

"I'd play whatever you want," Sherlock purred.

"Mmm. Look at you, all slack and compliant." Jim chuckled. "You know, it's almost too easy. All I ever have to do is threaten to hurt your puppy and all the fight goes right out of you… ugh. It's so achingly _predictable_."

Jim slid off Sherlock's lap and walked over to where Sebastian was sitting. He took the phone and clicked a few buttons. Sherlock's heart stopped.

"What are you doing?"

"Deduce it," Jim laughed coldly. He clicked a final button then tossed the mobile back into Sebastian's lap. "I'm going to have a shower. If he tries anything, feel free to injure him. As always, you'll get points for creativity. Just leave him alive."

And with that Jim swaggered out of the room, leaving Sherlock's ears ringing with panic. He looked across the room to where Sebastian sat. The other man smirked and typed something else out on Sherlock's mobile.

"What are you saying?" Sherlock drawled coldly.

"Just telling dear John not to worry about you."

"How _thoughtful_," Sherlock let the word drip with sarcasm.

"You know he sent the photo, right?"

"Of course he did."

"You know, I could put a knife in your thigh and tell him it was because you tried to escape." Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

"I have every confidence that he's got cameras in this room. He'd know you were lying."

"Doubt he'd care. You're the one that let him get _bored_. As long as you're still warm while he fucks you, he'd let me do anything. You don't need all your fingers, right?"

"If you come within reaching distance, you'll regret it." Sherlock shifted on the couch, sitting up a bit straighter. Preparing for whatever form of abuse Sebastian might throw at him.

Maybe he couldn't fire a shot as well as Sebastian could. But he was by no means inept in hand-to-hand combat. Sebastian was bigger. Stockier. But Sherlock figured he'd have speed on his side, and he didn't look half as strong as he actually was. Sebastian wouldn't be expecting it.

The two men stared at each other wordlessly for a few minutes.

The Sebastian stood. Sherlock mirrored his motion. He usually let his opponent strike first. Somebody's first blow said a lot about them as a fighter. As Sebastian advanced, Sherlock wondered dimly if Jim was watching them over a monitor. Giggling. Letting his two _pets_ fight it out.

If Sherlock had been ordinary—if he hadn't spent his entire life observing and honing his skills in prediction—he wouldn't have seen the punch coming. Sebastian was good. He barely tensed. Barely prepared before he carried the motion through. Sherlock dodged him, only just.

Sherlock got behind him. Defensive strategy. If Sebastian managed to hit him full on, there'd probably be enough force behind it to knock him down. Sebastian spun, but not quick enough. Sherlock managed to hook him in the stomach before retreating around the couch.

_His left pocket._ Sherlock circled the couch as Sebastian tried to come near him, keeping the barrier between them as he collected his thoughts. The key card that would open the door was in Sebastian's pocket. The trick would be getting it would his noticing. There wasn't a more perfect opportunity. But Sebastian's trousers were tight. He was sure to feel the motion.

_Risk to gain_. Sherlock would have to get close enough, possibly sacrifice a direct hit for his key to escape. Perhaps if he launched himself, attempted and _failed_ to pin Sebastian to the floor, the other man wouldn't notice a hand in his pocket.

It would have to be quick, an abrupt tangle of limbs. Over too fast for him to register what had happened.

Sebastian was fast, controlled, and brutal. He fought with utter surety. But perhaps if he were angry enough… he'd get sloppy.

"I bet he'll make you watch," Sherlock said offhandedly. "I bet he'll have you stand in the corner while he fucks me. He'll make you listen while he moans, and whines about how hot and tight and perfect my body is. Are you looking forward to that?"

"You won't be a very good fuck if you're too bruised and bloodied to see straight," Sebastian snarled.

"On the contrary, I think he'll like me better that way. He's attracted to destruction and chaos, after all. Really, it's in your best interests to just let me go. Once he has _me_, he's never going to want _you_ again."

"Fuck you. You're not going anywhere."

"All right. But when you get tossed out in the cold so I can be his new toy, don't say I didn't warn you."

Sherlock could see the rage boiling underneath Sebastian's skin. Really it wasn't that difficult, as the other man was obviously on-edge about the whole situation already. Deep breaths. Sink into calm. It's just transport. Whatever Sebastian did would heal.

Sherlock darted around the couch and rushed at him. Sebastian obviously hadn't been anticipating that. His half second of disorientation was all Sherlock needed. More than enough to grab his arm and twist it painfully behind his back. Push him forward onto his knees. Reach down into his pocket. Sherlock's fingers wrapped around he keycard and slipped it up his sleeve.

That little motion cost him the fight. Sebastian managed to get out of the arm lock and drag Sherlock to the ground. Worth it.

They were a tangle of falling limbs. Neither man allowed himself to be pinned. Sebastian caught Sherlock in the nose. Blood flowed over them. Sherlock got Sebastian in the eye. In the ribs. He managed to untangle himself and crawl away. Get to his feet. Sebastian followed but Sherlock got another piece of furniture in between them.

Sherlock wiped his mouth off on his sleeve—the coppery taste of blood lingering on his lips. He smiled.

"Points for creativity?" He sneered. "I think that was one of them most pedestrian fights I've ever participated in."

"Stop running away and I'll show you what pain really feels like."

"I'm fine here, thanks."

They continued on like that. Sebastian rushed, Sherlock ran. He was faster. Sebastian didn't catch him again. Sherlock didn't know how long it went on for. Perhaps minutes. Perhaps half an hour.

But eventually the door opened in the corner of the room. Moriarty stepped out, dressed in a fresh suit, shaking his head. "Really, boys," he rolled his eyes. "Fighting over me. There's no need."

Of course he was pleased. A barely concealed smile lurked behind his mask of bored disapproval. "Sherlock dear, go wash off. We can't have you all covered in blood. There's a bathroom through the door, first left. There's no exit back there so don't bother looking for one."

"Should I follow him, Boss?" Sebastian asked, still tense from the fight.

"No, darling. I think he's perfectly capable of washing his own face." Moriarty waved a hand.

Sherlock nodded and walked towards the door in the corner of the room. It opened into a short hallway that dead-ended. Three doors. I looked like there was a small kitchenette on the right. A bedroom, at the end of the hallway. Like Jim had said, there was no exit.

He stepped into the bathroom. It was lavish as the rest of the space. Marble floors, a large bathtub, and a double vanity sink. He splashed water on his face. His nose still throbbed. Every time he swallowed, he got the metallic taste of blood.

His suit was ruined. Covered in rusty spots already. But he grabbed a washcloth of the rack and cleaned up as best he could.

He took a few shaky breaths. Out of direct sight, perhaps he allowed himself a small breakdown. He wasn't exactly sure how much more of this he'd be able to endure. But he had his escape route now.

Still, he couldn't be certain there weren't cameras in the bathroom. He was very careful about slipping the key-card into his sock. His pockets were too risky. Jim might feel it if he sat on him again.

One last look in the mirror. His nose was bruised. Not broken. No doubt it would swell. He had a few other minor injuries. Nothing to be to concerned about.

Steady breaths.

Then back onto the battlefield.

* * *

The car ride was long and anxious. Mycroft finished briefing John in the first twenty minutes. Other than that, they remained mostly silent. Classical music played softly in the background, but it was far from soothing.

John had on a bulletproof vest. A helmet. Several concealed guns. None of it really made him feel any safer.

A van full of secret service followed Mycroft's sleek black car. They also had air forces. But those were mainly to take care of any perimeter security. To ensure that John and Sherlock could get out of the building. On the way in, he'd be completely on his own.

The building itself was empty except for three heat signatures in the basement. Moriarty, Moran and Sherlock. John had been staring at the building map for over an hour. He knew what to do. Get inside. Get in the elevator. Take it down to the lowest level.

But what would happen from there was a complete mystery. He didn't know how well Moran and Moriarty were armed. He couldn't be sure Moriarty wouldn't trigger the explosives and send them all sky-high.

All he could do was hope Sherlock was unharmed.

"Did you ever get sent on any rescue missions during your time in the military?" Mycroft asked placidly.

No doubt he already knew the answer and was just trying to make conversation. Perhaps distract John from the tense fire burning in his throat.

"Yeah, a few. Always just as a medic."

Mycroft nodded. "And yet, you're not scared for your own safety… you're currently worrying about my brother. Even after everything he's done to you."

"Just because he's a selfish bastard, it doesn't mean I can't love him," John said sourly.

A small smile quirked across Mycroft's lips, if only for a second. "Yes. I've been saying the same thing since he was old enough to speak, and consequently articulate his hatred for me."

John didn't know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut.

"If I'd known the building would be rigged with explosives, I wouldn't have sent him in," Mycroft said quietly.

"It was Moriarty. It's always a trap with him. If it weren't the explosives, it would be something else."

"True, I suppose. Predicting insanity is a rather futile exercise. Almost as futile as arguing with a genius, when he thinks he knows better."

"I'll drink to that," John forced a small laugh.

"You're a good man, John Watson." Mycroft nodded slightly. "A better one than I'll ever be, I'm sure. Do try not to die in there. The world could do with more people like you."

"I'll do my best."

Silence resumed. They continued on out into the darkness of the country night. John didn't focus so much on the twists and turns of the road. The best thing he could do was try to calm himself. Focus on each breath in and each breath out. Try to clear his mind.

The car took a turn off the main road. John's awareness perked up. They were driving up towards some sort of complex.

Not many lights, but he could see the silhouettes of tall buildings. Warehouses. The car drew to a slow halt while they were still a good distance away. No point in getting too close and alerting Moriarty's men to their presence sooner than necessary. John and Mycroft got out of the car. The van pulled up behind them. The back doors opened and men poured out. The fifteen-man SWAT team, all equipped with the best weapons and armor money could buy.

A strange adrenaline began to sing through John's veins. He'd felt similarly often enough in the desert. When fight or flight turns into fight or die. It was an eerie sort of tense calm. The sensation of nervous acceptance.

The plan was simple. John would go in by himself. Creating the illusion he was the only one there. Then, once he had Sherlock, he'd trigger a panic button and the SWAT team would come down to create an escape route for them.

Mycroft nodded, clapped John on the shoulder. Then there was nothing left for it. John began to walk. Approaching in darkness. From what they'd been able to gather through covert surveillance, Moriarty had a substantial defensive perimeter. Plenty of armed guards, in groups of three or four, patrolling between the buildings.

The compound was of course, a front for whatever criminal works Moriarty had going on underneath. The rows of warehouses supposedly belonged to a nationwide moving and shipping company. This particular location was one of their many hubs.

Perhaps it was normally a legal business during daylight hours and Moriarty had just cleared everyone out so he could play his little game. Perhaps there really was no such thing as the _Happy Movers_ _Company_.

John came in from the side. The building they wanted was towards the middle in a line of other warehouses. Most of the guards would probably be clustered around it strategically.

So far nobody had noticed him, but it was only a matter of time. Dead silence. The stillness of the moment was entirely unnerving. He came closer to the building. John saw the first hint of motion out of the corner of his eye.

A warning shot rang out. John dropped to the ground.

"Hold your fire!" He called.

Two sets of boots clunked towards him. John looked up into the shadowed faces of two well-armed guards. They shone a torch down on him. He raised his hands up in pliant surrender.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot," one of the guards raised his rifle

"Radio your boss and tell him John Watson's here," the doctor said in and admirably calm voice, "I'm sure he'll give you all the reasons you need."

A pause held. Long enough for John to wonder if he was really about to die lying on the ground, at the hands of some hired gimp. But then one of the guards shifted, got out his mobile.

"There's a John Watson here to see the Boss. Should we kill him or bring him down?"

John held his breath.

"All right," the guard nodded and snapped his phone shut.

The two men reached down and grabbed a hold of John's biceps, pulling him to his feet. They frog marched him up towards the building. John tried not to smile. So far, so good.

They walked into a large warehouse.

Their footsteps echoed through the empty silence. John kept his eyes wide—scanning for any and all exits they could take on the way back out. Because they would get back out. He couldn't afford to think otherwise. Not just then.

The three men reached the far end of the warehouse. They stopped in front of two shiny metal doors to a lift. One of the guards held John's hands behind his back while the other began to frisk him.

They took his vest and his helmet. Found the gun strapped to his ankle, but not the one on his stomach. He'd worn a false layer of padding over it, so it just felt like a bit of extra belly fat and not a hidden weapon. It wasn't enough to get them back out if it came to a shoot out. But more than enough to take care of Moriarty and Moran. The panic button just looked like a roll of mints he'd forgotten in his back pocket, so they didn't take that either.

Satisfied with their find—the guards pressed the down button. The lift chimed and the doors slid open. They rode down to the basement. John's heart had never beaten faster. The lift doors opened into a small room, with a large, mechanically locked door. Bugger. He'd have to find some way to get back out of that…

The guard pulled out a key-card and swiped it. The door clicked open. They shoved John unceremoniously inside, and the door snapped shut behind him once again.

"John…" Sherlock's voice came choked off and terrified.

Sherlock sat on the couch. Still clothed. Covered in dry blood. Moriarty was sprawled on top of him, lazily toying with something that looked like an asthma inhaler. Moran stood by them, holding a gun, smiling wickedly.

No exits but the way he came in. It figured. He didn't go for his gun quite yet. Best to keep surprise on his side for as long as he could.

"Late to the party, am I?" John cleared his throat.

"Oh no," Jim smiled, "you're just in time, Johnny darling. I was beginning to wonder whether or not you'd show up… but I'm so glad you didn't disappoint."

Jim stretched, shifting on top of Sherlock, and turned in John's direction. They held a long gaze. John couldn't help but feel like he was looking over the edge of a cliff, staring into the darkest places it was possible for a human to go.

"What have I missed so far?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, you know, lots of waiting. Sebby there got a bit jealous and decided to rough poor Sherlock up a bit… and of course, some wonderful _sex_," Jim let the last word drag in an unsettling drawl. "Did you get my text?"

"Yeah, I did," John said coldly.

"Good. I always like to be creative with my invitations. Though I must say I'm a bit surprised. After all, the Ice Man's got the entire English Cavalry at his disposal… and he sends _you_. Does he know something I don't?"

"Hostage situations are delicate," John said carefully, "didn't want to startle you into doing something you'd regret."

"How thoughtful of you," Jim chuckled. "But I suppose we'd better get on with the show quickly. No telling when the wrath of the crown will come down on us."

Jim pulled out a small remote, placed it on the coffee table next to him. The trigger for the explosives? Probably. And what about the inhaler he still held?

"What do you think, Johnny?" Jim asked softly. "Shall we give Sherlock the drug and make him all compliant for me? Or should we make you hold him down while I fuck him? Hmmm?"

John's hand twitched. He wanted to go for his gun so badly. But not quite yet. The pieces were beginning to slot together in his mind. The aerosol was full of his bloody mind control drug. More powerful than all the guns in the room. If John made just one misstep, he'd lose his chance.

"You're to answer when I ask you a question," Jim let out a long sigh. "You're a military man, Johnny. I'm sure I don't need to explain what that remote on the table does. It sends us all to Valhalla in a timely fashion. We can either play my game, or we can all die. Which would you prefer?"

"I think I'd prefer to live," John said mechanically.

"Good. Everything's more interesting that way. So you can either tell me what to do to Sherlock here, or I'll turn you over to Sebastian. He's not a very gentle lover. And he's been getting quite worked up over all the ways he wants to make you suffer."

"Please," Sherlock said quietly, "don't hurt him."

"Oh hush," Jim rolled his eyes, "you're like a broken record. Not John. Don't hurt John. Please leave my John alone. It's disgusting."

John stepped forward slightly. Moran tensed. He turned to Moriarty, "may I have permission to come further into the room?" He asked in his smoothest voice.

Jim frowned at him for a tiny moment. Then his expression cleared. "Oh Sherlock. You've got this one trained up good, don't you? Yes, Johnny. Come here and sit at our feet like a good little puppy."

John caged the scream that wanted to leave his mouth and did as he was told. No sudden movements. He walked carefully and quietly over to the couch and sank down onto his knees in front of Sherlock and Jim. He sat back on his heels and kept his eyes turned downwards. Sebastian came up behind him and took the remote off the coffee table. Damn.

Well at least, he figured, Moran was less likely to trigger it than Moriarty if things started to go south. Military men were survivors till the last breath.

Jim leaned down and cupped John's chin. John shuddered slightly at the contact. He couldn't help it.

He looked up. But not at Jim. At Sherlock. His insides twisted at the look on Sherlock's face. All the raw pain and anguish, leaking out at the cracked seams of his usual mask. John licked his lips.

He wouldn't be fast enough to get the aerosol spray and his gun at the same time. However, if Sherlock grabbed the spray, he could get his gun out and trail it on Moriarty. He widened his eyes slightly. Wondering if there was any way he could make Sherlock understand without it being overly obvious.

But really, it was then or never.

"Vatican Cameos," he breathed. Trusting Sherlock to grasp the situation. They were nothing if not for trust. And in that moment, there wasn't a single person on earth he trusted more than Sherlock Holmes.

A small look of confusion crossed Moriarty's face. Sherlock's hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist, wrenching the aerosol out of his grasp. John reached under his jumper and pulled out his pistol, trailing it immediately on Moriarty's forehead.

"Oh my," Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "Quite the feisty little dog aren't we? Sebby. Press the button."

Silence held.

"Sebby," Jim's voice developed a slightly sharper edge.

"You don't want to die today," John said quietly, not taking his eyes off Jim. "More importantly, you don't want Jim to die. Do you, Sebastian?"

"Shut it," Sebastian snarled. But he did sound rather panicked.

Sherlock squirmed out from underneath Jim. John kept the gun steady as he rose to his feet. Sherlock stood next to him, almost touching him.

"Sebastian," he said quietly, "lower the gun."

"I'm not a fucking idiot."

"Well if you're not going to use the remote, shoot them, for god's sake!" Jim nearly screamed.

"Sebastian," Sherlock repeated, "we can all die here, or we can all leave alive. It's up to you. But if you pull the trigger, so will John."

John turned his head to face Sebastian. The man looked nervous as all hell. He couldn't blame him. Not really. It as awful to have the thing you loved threatened.

Sherlock leaned forward slightly and pressed down the aerosol right in Jim's face. Jim looked indignant for a moment. Then a slack calm crawled across his features. Sherlock gently patted him on the head.

"Jim," he said softly.

Moriarty turned towards the noise.

"I need you to focus. Where do you keep the rest of the drugs?"

"Which drugs?" Jim asked lazily.

"The ones that come in the aerosol."

"First floor," Jim shrugged, closing his eyes.

Sherlock straightened up, placing a hand on the small of John's back. "I've got a proposal, Sebastian. We'll give you Jim. We all escape at the same time. Once we're out of the building, you press the button. The drugs are destroyed, it gives you enough of a diversion to get away. Everybody lives."

As he talked, John's reached into his back pocket, fingers wrapping around the panic button. John pressed it down.

"I've just called Mycroft. So this is a rather time-sensitive decision," John said evenly. "I'd say you have about a minute or two if you still want a chance of making it out safely."

Sebastian stared at them. Then at Jim. "Fuck it," he grunted. He lumbered forward, keeping the gun trailed on John and Sherlock. He pocketed the remote and bent to pick up Jim. He heaved him up, to piggyback him out of the building. Sherlock bent down and reached into his sock, pulling out a key-card.

Sebastian's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

They made for the door. Sherlock swiped the card and they got in the lift. John kept his gun trailed on Sebastian. Sebastian kept his gun trailed on Sherlock. It was a tense sort of stand off.

"Just to be clear," Sebastian growled, "if I ever see either of you again—I'm going to kill you."

"Likewise," John nodded.

The lift doors opened. The men ran their separate ways, for the exits on the north and south ends of the building. John could hear the chaos outside. Gunshots. Helicopters. Shouting. The warehouse was still empty. Thank god. Because it was going up in a fireball of death at any moment.

As they ran, Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's hand. The doctor squeezed. They were breathless. Barreling towards the door.

"I love you," Sherlock said raggedly.

"I love you too, you tosser."

They burst through the door into the mayhem outside and kept running. Shots rang out. A bullet whizzed past John's head. People screamed back and forth on both sides as they raced off in some aimless, dark direction.

"Get away! It's gonna blow!"

"Retreat!"

They found the road and ran down it. They got a good distance away before the deafening explosion rang out through the night. John could almost feel the heat of it. The blaze of fire that went up into the night sky. They kept moving. Because they still weren't out of the woods. One of Moriarty's men could still find them, and it would have all been for nothing.

Eventually, though, they made it back to the main road. John texted Mycroft and they stood, panting, waiting.

He realized they were still holding hands. They hadn't let go of each other. He could hardly see anything in the darkness. But Sherlock stepped closer to him. Wrapped him in a hug and he let it happen.

"I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock mumbled, "I don't—"

"Shh. I don't want to talk about it right now."

Sherlock nodded, trembling slightly. He leaned down and sought out John's mouth. Their lips pressed together in a fevered, adrenaline-fueled kiss.

They stood there, as the building burned on the horizon. As shots and screams still rang out through the night. Surrounded by chaos, they were an island unto themselves. Their tongues tangled urgently. Alive. Still breathing. Blood rushing through their veins.

They clung to each other as the world deteriorated around them.

It started out with a kiss, by a pool, next to a jacket full of plastic explosives. It only seemed fitting that they'd come full-circle. Devouring each other mere minutes after a large bomb went off. It gave everything a strange symmetry. A strange purpose. Like they were always meant to end up standing on the side of the road, groping each other desperately. Drowning in bizarre emotion.

* * *

_Well, there you have it friends. I'm much better at smut than I am at action scenes, so writing this was like pulling teeth, and I'll probably go back and change some things. But yay! Jawn and Sherlock made it!_

_Reviews, follows and favorites make the pain of writing worth it. Lord knows I would have stopped doing this to myself ages ago if not for all your wonderful encouragement._

_There should be about another two chapters. So I'll see you next Wednesday for angst, some conflict resolution, and hopefully some make up sex!_

_xoxo_


	24. Falling in Slow Motion

_Fair warning: prepare for angst, sexual frustration, and schmoop—with a healthy dose of smut. I hate writing endings, but I love it. Because I eventually run out of plot points to resolve and I just start throwing literary confetti around. I'm having a great time. Eheheheheh!_

* * *

It was a long ride back to Baker Street. John dozed fitfully, face pressed against the window. Sherlock stayed mostly silent. The black car drifted along the road smoothly. Mycroft had stayed at the warehouse, to sort out some of the chaos—so it was just the two of them. But it seemed neither man could think of much to say. They were both to tired. Wrung out and crashed from the massive adrenaline rush of the escape.

When they got back to the flat and climbed the stairs Sherlock headed for the shower. John made a cup of tea reflexively, perhaps because he didn't know what else to do.

He'd gotten Sherlock back. They were both alive and safe for the time being. But an undercurrent of panic still lingered in John's mind. He didn't know what had happened to Sherlock. Not really. He'd never know what was forced on him, and what Sherlock did of his own volition. Perhaps he could trust Sherlock's word to a certain degree. But he always kept things from John where Moriarty was involved. So it was a bit of an emotional stale mate.

A few sips of tea, a few deep breaths. Perhaps everything would be a bit easier to handle in the morning. As it was, John's eyelids felt like they weighed ten pounds each.

He waited for Sherlock to come back out of the shower—in nothing but his blue dressing gown. Perhaps he waited just to assure himself that Sherlock was in fact alive and back home. Perhaps he'd wanted to say something.

But all he could really think to do was mutter, "I'm going to bed."

Sherlock nodded and followed John up the stairs. Any thoughts of protest simply required too much effort.

John stripped down to his pants and flopped down on the mattress. Sherlock lay down next to him and they settled under the sheets. They lay side-by-side but not quite touching. John started to drift off. He jerked back to reality just for a moment when Sherlock's fingers intertwined with his.

It was just enough. He could feel the warmth. The life. The pulse between them. And even though he knew everything was far from being fine—it was at least a step back in the right direction.

John squeezed Sherlock's hand gently before letting himself slide into sweet, dreamless sleep.

When he woke up in the morning, the other half of the bed was empty—but he could hear the soothing sound of Sherlock's violin drifting up with stairway. He lay in bed and listened for a while before he managed to drag himself out of bed and get dressed.

The first order of business, of course, was tea. Then he made himself a few fried eggs, and toast with plenty of butter. Sherlock didn't stop playing while John clattered around the kitchen. The army doctor sat at the table, read the paper, and finished his breakfast all to the soothing tones of languid violin notes.

It was only when he couldn't put it off for any longer that he made his way to the living room and sat down in his favorite armchair. Sherlock was fully dressed—slacks and an off-grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He nodded at John and finished playing whatever song he'd been in the middle of before settling down on the couch.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. John cleared his throat.

"So… do you want to tell me what happened?" He asked carefully.

"I'm certain it's not quite as awful as you think," Sherlock replied, looking out the window. "Mycroft explained it to you, didn't he? That I was simply there to locate the drug."

"Yeah—pretty idiotic plan if you ask me," John snorted. "You could have died. _We_ could have died."

"To be fair, you weren't part of the original plan."

"I saved your life, you ungrateful bastard."

"I know. Thank you… but you know the whole point of going there was to protect you. Not to put you in the direct line of fire."

"I'm not some wilting flower that can't defend myself, Sherlock. If this relationship is going to work we can't _both_ have a martyr complex."

Sherlock chewed on his lip for a moment. "Well, I'm sure Jim Moriarty won't be bothering us for a while. Mycroft's got his best and brightest set after him. And he only got a few seconds of a head start."

"Yeah, maybe he'll stay away for a little bit. But then what?" John raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock shrugged and avoided eye contact.

John took a few deep breaths. Counted to ten. If he got angry and started yelling, Sherlock would probably shut off. Get defensive. Then they'd never talk about it.

"I'll ask again," John said carefully, "will you tell me what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well… did you and Moriarty…" he trailed off, not exactly sure if he wanted to finish the sentence.

"We kissed," Sherlock said evenly.

"Is that all?" John's heart throbbed in his throat. No tears. No yelling. Perfect calm.

"Yes… well… that and I watched him have sex with Moran. Not like I really had a choice," Sherlock waved his hand vaguely.

"But the two of you didn't—"

"No."

"I want you to be completely honest with me," John said quietly.

"I am being honest. Two kisses. That's it."

"Did you want to?"

Sherlock fidgeted back and forth, folding in on himself slightly. "I don't see what that matters," he snapped after a minute.

"I'd like to know."

"Fine. Yes. I wanted to. But I didn't. Because of you. It wasn't worth it."

John hadn't realized his hands were clenched into fists. He tried to relax them. It felt like his ribcage was fighting to contain a wild animal. His breaths came erratically, despite all his efforts to calm them.

He wanted to believe Sherlock. He really did. But god. This was all an awful lot to deal with, wasn't it?

The silence drew out again. John used the lull to try to mentally steady himself. It wasn't a whole lot of use trying to puzzle out things he'd never understand. Perhaps it was better to just look forward.

"If we're going to do this," John fought to keep his voice even, "things can't stay the way they are. All right? We have to actually communicate. Like proper adults. And—well—you can't just order me around all the time. I'm a person, and I want to be treated as such."

"I treat you like a person—"

"Let me finish," John raised his eyebrows. "It will be your turn in a minute. I… well this can't just all be about sex either. That's no foundation for anything permanent. You said you loved me. If you meant it—then I want an actual relationship. I want to know where I stand. You need to _tell_ me things, Sherlock. I know you have feelings, somewhere deep down in there. I need you to express them. Right? I'm not like you. I can't just look at you and know what you're thinking. You have to explain it to me."

John took a few steadying breaths. It sounded like a lot, just pouring out like that. But Sherlock was listening. He stared at John intently, as if waiting for him to continue.

"I don't mind all the kinky stuff we do. I really don't," John swallowed, "but well… I also want normal things. You know—just having a nice lie in on a Sunday morning. Maybe just having slow sex on a bed in the missionary position. Boring stuff. It's not that I want to change you—god knows—you're fantastic the way you are. I'm not asking you to stop being surly when there's no case on. I'm not asking you to stop being a mad genius. I just… if you could sometimes just come down to my level. If we could just spend an afternoon watching a movie and snogging on the couch…"

He trailed off.

Sherlock stayed quiet. Just watching him. John blinked a few times, wondering whether or not he would be able to keep himself together. This was important.

"I want to be your partner, Sherlock. Not the tag-along sidekick. That's fine for a case but for this—for us—I need us to be equals. You're so far above me in so many ways I'm not even sure that's possible but it's just… I'm tired of feeling like your pet."

Sherlock nodded. He looked excessively uncomfortable. Like he was sitting on a couch made out of brambles. John wondered if Sherlock had ever sat down and had a proper talk like this with somebody before. It was probably a lot to ask from a man that liked to deny that he had emotions.

But John had to try. He gave himself a mental shake and tried to smile. "All right then, your turn. Anything you'd like to say?"

Sherlock stared at him intensely for perhaps an entire minute. The doctor felt a bit like he'd been spread across a microscope slide. But he didn't squirm. He just waited patiently.

"When I look at you and think about you ever leaving again it makes my chest ache like I'm about to have a heart attack," Sherlock said flatly.

John didn't exactly know how to respond, but Sherlock didn't even really give him time. He plowed right on ahead.

"You're perfect. You're kind, and gentle, and tirelessly accommodating. I put you through hell on a daily basis and most of the time, you take it with a smile. You're sexy. You're not nearly as stupid as the majority of the human population. I haven't the slightest inkling where you got the idea that you're not the most important person in the world to me—but I really wish you'd stop thinking that. I'd do anything for you. I'd die for you."

Sherlock shifted, sliding a hand into his pocket. His fingers wrapped around something and drew it out. He placed a small, plastic inhaler on the coffee table and slid it towards John. The same one he'd wrenched from Moriarty's hand not more than twelve hours previously. The chemical handcuffs. The mind control drug…

"Sherlock," John said breathlessly, "shouldn't—I thought you gave that to Mycroft."

"Obviously I didn't."

"But, isn't it dangerous for you to have that? Shouldn't we destroy it?"

"Nobody knows we have it. It's not very much. Take it. It's yours."

"But—why?"

"You're the only man on earth I'd ever trust with it," Sherlock shrugged.

John stared down at the little aerosol. It was an odd moment. Sherlock handing him a weapon that could rule the world, like it was nothing. Giving him every bit of power he could ever ask for.

It balanced things out rather eloquently, didn't it? If he wanted to—John could simply spray Sherlock with the drug and get the other man to do anything he said. Of course he wouldn't. That would be unethical to start with. Dangerous, even.

Still—it was quite a gesture.

He picked up the aerosol and stared at it for a few moments before setting it back down. "Suppose I'll have to think up a good place to hide it. Wouldn't want the wrong people getting a hold of it, after all."

"No, we wouldn't… John… if you want to use it… it's ok," Sherlock said quietly.

"Pardon?"

"I mean, it's only fair. And I can't imagine you ever doing something to me that I didn't want. So if it would give you some form of catharsis to—you know—I'm just saying it's all right."

Sherlock looked oddly fragile for just a moment. Like he was holding his own heart in his hands and offering it to John unquestioningly. _Here. Take it. Just please, don't let it hurt_.

"Well, that means a lot, Sherlock. But I'd honestly rather not use the drug. I mean, maybe another time, somewhere down the line. It's all a bit too real at the moment."

"I suppose it is," Sherlock relaxed slightly. "So that's it, then?"

"What is?"

"I dunno. Everything."

"I mean—it's going to take some time for things to get back to normal. We've been through rather a lot. I think… perhaps it would be best if we took things slow for a little while."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, I just need a little bit of time before I can trust you again. And I also think… well any time we've ever had a fight, we've solved it with sex. That's not healthy. In fact, it's one of the classical signs of a doomed relationship. So perhaps we shouldn't, you know, do _that_ for a little bit."

Sherlock's eyes widened in horror for a moment before he could stop himself—but his expression quickly cleared.

"Of course, John. If that's what you want."

"Thank you," the smaller man nodded.

For this first time in a long time, things felt like they might have turned in a slightly more wholesome direction. Perhaps it was progress. And yeah, all right, perhaps he did want to make Sherlock suffer just a little bit.

But the fact that Sherlock was willing to go along with it, at least for a little while, said a lot. They could do this. They could get through to the other side.

John smiled tightly. Sherlock walked back across the room and picked up his violin. He started playing again. John listened, trying to relax all the muscles in his body that had tensed involuntarily.

Perhaps things at Baker Street would never exactly be normal. But maybe they could reach some sort of equilibrium.

* * *

John and Sherlock slept in their own beds each night. Or rather, John slept. Sherlock often spent the night awake. Pacing. Lestrade didn't have any cases for him to work on. Nothing remotely interesting from the blog. Boredom ate at the edges of his every conscious moment. He'd almost forgotten what things had been like before. How difficult it had been to cope with the lulls in _the work_, before he could distract himself with John.

He ran messy experiments at the kitchen table—which John didn't comment on. For the most part the doctor drank tea, typed away at his computer, and wore atrocious jumpers like nothing was wrong. Every now and then he'd press a small kiss against Sherlock's forehead, or give him a squeeze on the shoulder, and those tiny moments of physical contact were deliriously intoxicating.

But god, they weren't _enough_.

He'd gotten used to being able to touch John whenever he felt like it. To just reach out and grab a hold of him—fuck him into the couch, or the kitchen table, or the mattress. Really, he probably still could.

Despite his calm demeanor, John showed all the typical signs of sexual frustration. When they went out to dinner, he chewed on the ice cubes from his water glass. He peeled the labels off his beer bottles. He fidgeted. Pulled at loose threads in his clothing.

Late at night, if Sherlock sat at the bottom of the stairs and listened intently, he could sometimes hear John touching himself. Of course, the good doctor would try to be quiet. But Sherlock still heard the small sounds of the mattress springs shifting. The tiny gasp when John came.

If Sherlock backed John up against a wall and started kissing him, their little cold snap would no doubt end promptly.

But he didn't want that. He didn't want to force John into it, at least. They were doing this for a reason. Building something important. Trust. He wanted John to trust him.

Still.

He couldn't remember time ever passing so slowly.

He tried not to drag himself around the flat like a dejected puppy. He even went out on a few walks, just to give John space. Usually said walks ended up at a far away off-license. He bought numerous packs of cigarettes, usually only smoking one or two before giving the rest of the pack away.

He waited for what felt like a year. But only about two weeks passed in actual time. Then one night John asked if he wanted to watch a movie.

They sat on the couch. Not quite cuddling, but close to each other. Sherlock couldn't focus on the screen at all. He just knew it was some film with a ridiculous premise—a magical man that rode cannonballs, and went to the moon, and defeated the entire Turkish army with a band of five misfits.

Mostly he just watched John's face. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The happy relaxed smile. He found himself drifting closer without noticing it. Soon their thighs pressed together. John didn't pull away.

Sherlock's heart raced. He felt slightly ridiculous, getting so giddy about such insignificant physical contact. He'd touched every inch of John. Ravaged him more times than he could count. But something had changed.

The air between them crackled with static electricity. Potential energy. John shifted, angling towards him unconsciously. His small pink tongue flicked out to run across his lower lip. Sherlock wanted to lean forward and close the distance so badly.

But he didn't.

He just barely restrained himself. John looked at him out of the corner of his eyes.

"Are you all right?" The doctor asked in a low voice, tinged with vague amusement.

"Yes," Sherlock replied curtly.

"It looks like you're about to snap," John chuckled. "You know, for a man that's convinced most of the world he's asexual—you've got a ridiculous libido."

"I can't help that you're irresistible," Sherlock purred before he could stop himself. But he didn't move. He stayed perfectly still.

John rolled his eyes, but the smile didn't leave his face. He leaned into Sherlock. The detective draped his arm around the smaller man's shoulder. They fit together comfortably.

The movie still flickered in the background. Sherlock placed his hand unobtrusively on John's knee. After a while, the smaller man tilted his head upward and gazed directly at Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock leaned down and closed the distance.

It started off gently. An innocent, affectionate little kiss. Sherlock began to pull away, while he still possessed the self-control to do so. But John reached up and grabbed a fist-full of Sherlock's curls, pulling him in closer.

Before long they slid sideways and sprawled across the couch. It felt so good to have John's weight on top of him. Their mouths melded together. Desperate. Feverish. Hungry.

"You've been walking around in a sheet just to torture me," John growled, nipping at Sherlock's lower lip.

"I've done no such thing," Sherlock chuckled in mock-offense.

"You're a bastard."

"You wouldn't have it any other way."

John ground their hips together and Sherlock groaned. Unlike John, he hadn't been touching himself. He hadn't gotten any sort of relief from the horrible tension building inside him. He'd never wanted anybody as badly as he wanted John right then.

He grabbed two handfuls of the good doctor's arse and pulled him closer—pressing their bodies firmly together. John began to rut against him slowly. It was wonderful agony.

They were simply wearing too many layers of clothing. Sherlock found it to be utterly distasteful and entirely unacceptable. He grabbed the bottom hem of John's jumper and started to pull it upwards. John caught on and helped out, sitting up and pulling the wooly mess over his head. The smaller man stripped off his undershirt and then went to work on Sherlock's button down—spreading it open, but not bothering to take it all the way off.

John paused when he got to Sherlock's belt buckle. A bit of the heat left his eyes. He sobered just a bit. No. Fuck. What had Sherlock done wrong?

"I… I'm still not sure if we should… you know…" John said awkwardly.

"It's fine," Sherlock took a deep breath, "whatever you're comfortable with."

"We'll just—we'll just take it easy, all right?"

"All right."

John loosed Sherlock belt buckle and unbuttoned his trousers. He tugged down the zip and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's prick. The taller man choked back a small moan.

"Bit eager, are we?" John grinned.

Sherlock elected not to reply. Instead he reached for the button on John's jeans—quickly flicking it open. He pulled the zip down and reached into John's pants. He stroked John slowly. The good doctor shuddered.

John dipped down to steal another kiss, then sprawled across Sherlock once again. He slid down slightly so their cocks lined up. Sherlock wrapped a hand around both of their pricks and John began to thrust.

Slow and steady at first. Their collective heavy breathing seemed infinitely louder than the music pouring from the television. Sherlock's whole world narrowed down to the places his body touched John's. The heat that radiated between them. Skin sliding against skin.

He never wanted anything else but this.

John pressed his face into the place where Sherlock's shoulder met his neck and he groaned. Every motion caused a tittering shock of pleasure to ricochet through Sherlock's body. Every time John slid forward, he rubbed against the bundle of nerve endings right under the head of Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock gasped. The fire writhed inside him. Pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

John's breath ghosted past his ear in little bursts of heat. The tension began to mount far too quickly. It felt like he might implode under the sheer gravity of it.

"Oh god," John moaned.

Sherlock's grip started to slip. They were slick with sweat, perhaps hints of pre-come. Sherlock tightened his grasp around their cocks. John made a little choked noise. Breathing became progressively more difficult.

"_Love you,"_ Sherlock barely whispered.

The tingling pleasure gathered. Swelled. His head spun. There was no world outside that moment. Time stopped existing.

John shuddered and began to pulse in Sherlock's hand. The stickiness of the smaller man's release spread between them. Sherlock let go of him him, wrapping his fingers only around his own cock.

It didn't take much to send him over the edge, with John panting on top of him, pressing small kisses into the side of his neck. He shuddered and crashed, burned out on the wave of neurotransmitters flooding through his brain.

John pressed a sloppy kiss against his mouth and let out a long sigh. He didn't roll off of Sherlock, or redress himself. He just laid there. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and luxuriated in the feeling.

The smaller man's breathing gradually slowed. Sherlock wondered if he was dropping off to sleep. He wouldn't mind it. He might be able to doze for a while as well. He always slept better when John was nearby.

"We should go on holiday," John mumbled into Sherlock shoulder.

"Oh should we now?" Sherlock laughed lightly. "Where do you want to go?

"I dunno. Anywhere. We should rent a car and just drive until we find somewhere that looks interesting."

"Someone sent me an email about a series of seemingly accidental deaths in Cornwall. I could investigate. I bet it wouldn't take me more than a day or two to wrap up the case, and we could book reservations for a week."

"Suspected foul play and the sea side? How could I refuse?" John laughed.

The moments drew out, quiet and unhurried. By the time the film ended, John was fast asleep. Sherlock managed to reach up and grab the afghan that was draped across the top of the couch. He pulled it over the smaller man to keep him from shivering. He lay peacefully. Mind relatively blank. Consumed in the myriad of sensations and smells that was John Watson.

Everything seemed strangely right. Right in a way that it had never been before. He'd found something in John that he'd never known he was looking for. He'd almost lost it. But now that he'd grasped it again, he refused to let go.

He knew it was improbable that he'd stay this satisfied forever.

He and John would fight, and get occasionally sick of each other, and sometimes wonder what the point of it all was. Just like any pair people that spent enough time together.

But he was reasonably confident he'd never forget this feeling of utter contentedness. It would carry him through the rough patches.

John snored softly. Sherlock smiled.

Yes. This was perfect. Or at least, as perfect as life ever got.

He was happy.

* * *

_Usually I'd feel ridiculous for writing such fluffiness. But I think we've earned it._

_Reviews, follows and favorites are cuddled, loved an appreciated. I still can't believe how achingly wonderful you guys have been. I love this fandom. You're so supportive and encouraging. I just... I WANT TO HUG EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU AND NEVER LET GO._

_I'm actually going to cry when this is over. I swear to god, I'll bawl my eyes out._

_But, we've still got another chapter to go. So tune in next Wednesday for John and Sherlock's seaside holiday._

_Then I'll probably add a sickeningly domestic epilogue, just because I'm not ready to deal with this story being finished. This has been like five months of my life. I'll be lost without it._

_But adieu for now, my darlings. I'll see you next week._

_xoxo_


	25. Holiday

_Fair warning: excessively fluffy smut. There is no more plot left here, friends. Just porn and feelings. Enjoy it :D_

* * *

John and Sherlock took a morning train. Two suitcases packed. They had reservations at a nice hotel, by the water. John read for most of the train ride. Sherlock went through all the information he could find about the accidental deaths he'd been hired to investigate and had several workable theories by the time they arrived.

They checked into their hotel and grabbed tea at a nearby café before heading down to the local police station. They talked with a very nice young woman, PC Elton, about the four recent deaths. Nothing particularly useful. But Sherlock miraculously managed not to make enemies of everyone at the station—and they convinced PC Elton to show them down to the harbor where a lot of so-called _accidents_ had happened.

Sherlock wandered off, poking about, probably looking through security footage and bombarding random dockworkers with questions. John mostly stood by the water and enjoyed the scenery. The fresh, salty air. He loved the city, certainly, but it was nice to be elsewhere. Slightly removed from the constant chaos that was London.

The sky was perfect, nearly cloudless. The water was fairly calm. He found it frighteningly easy to slip into the sort of peaceful tranquility he hadn't felt for years. He wasn't particularly concerned about the case. Sherlock didn't seem to be either.

Because it wasn't long before he walked up behind John and rested his chin on the smaller man's shoulder. They stood like that for a while, looking out at the vast expanse of horizon.

"Did you figure it out, then?" John asked.

"Yes. One of the deaths was actually an accident. The other three were definitely on purpose. But the funny thing is, all three victims suffered from terminal illnesses. I'm pretty sure it's all about collecting life insurance policies. They pay our triple if somebody dies on the job—so the impending death club decided to all commit suicide together so their families could get more money."

"Huh. So no murders after all?"

"No. Dreadfully boring, isn't it?"

"Are you going to tell the police that the accidental deaths were actually suicides?"

"There'd be no point in it. Might as well let the families have the insurance money." Sherlock circled his arms around John in a loose hug.

"That's awfully nice of you," the doctor smiled.

"I also don't want to spend the two days it would take to get all of the idiots at the police station to understand what happened. I can think of several more productive ways I could use that time." Sherlock nipped John's neck lightly.

The smaller man hummed in reply.

He and Sherlock had kept to their agreement lately. Or rather—kept to John's request. They'd taken things slow. Eased back into the relationship without having feverish sex multiple times a day. Of course, they hadn't been able to refrain from touching each other at all. There'd been a few sessions of frantic rutting, or the desperate blowjob here or there.

But there'd been no penetrative sex since that morning at St. Bart's on the floor of the supply closet. God. That was nearly three weeks ago. John would be lying if he said he didn't miss it—having Sherlock inside him. In fact, he felt the first vague prickles of arousal just thinking about it.

He leaned back and looked up at Sherlock.

"Want to go have a long walk on the beach?" He grinned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. But he returned the smile. They wandered off the docks, along the waterfront. They found a nice, mostly unoccupied stretch of sand, took off their shoes, and strolled casually. Walking close to the water, occasionally into it, just to wet their feet and shiver at the cold.

By the time they got to the end of the beach, they were far away from the docks. In fact, there wasn't a soul in sight. They sat in the sand for a while. John rambled aimlessly about his uncle that used to live on a houseboat. John and his father used to visit occasionally. They'd all fish, right off the side of the deck and catch their dinner.

Sherlock might have listened. Mostly, he seemed preoccupied with tracing aimless patterns across John's thigh.

When the doctor ran out of things to say about his uncle, fishing, and the sea respectively, Sherlock pressed a light kiss against his lips. The light kiss turned into a rather more heated one that was all tongue and moaning into each other's mouths. Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock had them both sprawled out across the sand. They rolled, so Sherlock lay on his back, with John on top of him.

The moment reminded him of a strange youthful recklessness. The kind of feeling he used to get as a teenager, when he kissed girls in the back of cars, on warm, summer nights.

They _could_ fuck right there. No question. Or rather, they could rut against each other with all of their clothes on—because John was absolutely _not_ going to get undressed. He'd spent far too much time in a desert not to know the horrors of getting sand stuck in places it was never meant to be.

The heat between them didn't necessarily fizzle out. If anything, it grew the longer they stayed pressed against each other. But the frenzied snogging slowly melted into slower, more exploratory swipes of tongues. Eventually Sherlock pulled back, tracing a hand down John's side.

"Do you want to go back to the hotel?" He asked in a low voice. Almost a purr.

"Yeah," John smiled.

He sat up and helped Sherlock dust some of the sand out of his curls before they made their way down the beach.

They put on their shoes when they reached the road again. John's socks felt gritty with the leftover sand, but it wasn't so awful. They opted to walk back to the hotel, rather than catch a cab. It was a bit far. But it seemed a shame not to savor such a pleasant afternoon.

And perhaps they both wanted to let the anticipation build. To really enjoy the slow burn of waiting for something they both wanted desperately.

The sun began to sink lower in the sky. They made a small detour at a pizza place they passed to get some dinner.

The restaurant was small, and cozy. It smelled a bit dusty, like the hardwood all of the booths and floors were made of. Sherlock and John crowded into a corner together, invading each other's personal space as they ate wonderfully greasy pizza, and curried chips. John had a couple of pints and Sherlock stole a sip here or there.

It felt like a proper holiday. Unhurried, relaxed, Sherlock smiled a lot more easily than usual. He laughed at John's awful jokes, and for once, it didn't seem like his mind was elsewhere. They'd both fallen into the moment and stayed there.

Sherlock eventually paid the bill, and they continued their walk. On an impulse, they picked up a bottle of wine. John doubted Sherlock would really drink much of it. But it didn't matter. They didn't have any pressing engagements tomorrow. Nothing dark and sinister loomed in the distance.

For once, they were allowed to just be people. Real, actual, fairly normal people. Not a genius and his sidekick. Not a _freak_ and his long-suffering pet.

They made it back to their room just after sunset. John took a quick shower, to rinse off any residual sand, and the general grime of travel. Brushed his teeth. Slapped on some aftershave, even though he knew he probably wouldn't be going anywhere. Then he threw on a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans.

When John finished, they switched places. Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom and the sound of running water followed shortly. The doctor opened the wine and poured it into two glasses. He sipped it casually, sitting at the foot of the bed, and looking out the window. They had a nice view of the coast, and the pinpricks of light along it.

After perhaps ten minutes, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. John's mouth went a bit dry. He took another sip of wine before setting the glass aside.

The taller man advanced slowly. Smiling. When he got almost within reaching distance, the towel dropped to the floor. Maybe John's breath caught when Sherlock's knees sank down on either side of him and he suddenly had a lap full of naked consulting detective.

Sherlock's arms circled around John's shoulders and their mouths melded together once again. No hurry now. They had all the time in the world. An entire week to themselves. John could hardly believe it. Part of him still knew that Lestrade could call at any moment with a particularly interesting case—and Sherlock would itch to go back to London.

But right then, the two of them were a self-contained universe. Oblivious to all things outside their luxurious hotel room, with a soft king-sized bed.

Sherlock pulled back slightly, grabbing the hem of John's t-shirt and tugging it upwards. The smaller man lifted his arms agreeably. The skin to skin contact made him ache somewhere deep in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to hold Sherlock like this forever. To never let him go.

He felt the other man's cock beginning to fill out, pressing warm and eager against his abdomen. John's body echoed a response. Building a fire together. It was different now than when they'd first started. Perhaps there was just more purpose to their physicality. Perhaps they'd found a slightly more even ground to stand on.

"I want you," Sherlock whispered into John's ear.

It sent a lurch of anticipation through the smaller man's body. He ran his hands over the vast expanse of Sherlock's skin—touching every place he could reach. Every point of contact seemed to buzz. To spur on the strange high that had flooded John's brain.

John fell back onto the mattress, dragging Sherlock with him. They rolled and clutched at each other, somehow divesting the smaller man of his jeans in the process. He didn't know if he'd ever experienced such a lavish feeling of nudity before. Perhaps it was something about being in a hotel bed—a honeymoon suite. Perhaps it was the soft, lazily happy expression on Sherlock's face. Perhaps the moment didn't really need a reason to feel glorious. It simply existed as a small tick of perfection in an otherwise haphazard lifespan.

"_John_," Sherlock moaned into the doctor's mouth. He pulled the doctor in just a little bit closer. "Take me."

The words floated on a whisper. John couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined them. But the way Sherlock moved against him, stared with wide, eyes…

"Really?" John murmured. "You don't have to."

"I want to."

It felt almost as if the earth's magnetic polarities had reversed. Everything John knew about what him and Sherlock were had shifted.

The man that had tied John to the furniture, and whipped him until his skin broke, and ravaged him in countless inappropriate, public places—wasn't really the same man staring into John's eyes right then. Was he? John didn't know which thing was real. If Sherlock really had changed or just become a more complete person. If he'd always been like this and had simply hidden parts of himself away—or if he was seeing brand new pieces of Sherlock's personality develop right before his eyes.

All he could really know was how much it meant, that Sherlock was offering him this freely. Without hesitation. Without fear.

John knew he'd rush if he didn't make himself slow down and savor the moment. All the pent-up eagerness might spill out anyway. After all, he never thought he'd actually be able to have Sherlock this way. He'd come relatively close a handful of times… but those had all just felt like desperate flirting with an impossible situation.

_This_ was actually happening.

John rolled them carefully so Sherlock wound up on his back. Feet on the bed. Knees bent, raised on either side of John's torso. John rocked his hips and slid their erections together. A small, breathy sound escaped Sherlock's mouth.

The doctor didn't want to draw back to grab the tube of lubricant he'd stashed in the nightstand—next to the courtesy bible. But he was only gone for a minute. Then he slotted easily back into place.

Still, he noticed Sherlock had tensed. Looked a bit more nervous than he did aroused. The doctor took a deep breath.

"Sherlock," he said softly, "are you sure about this?"

"Yes… just… go slowly."

John nodded. The best course of action was probably to distract Sherlock. Get him too lost in sensation for worry. Perhaps he was just scared because he'd never done this before. Either that, or he'd only done it a handful of times, and still carried around a lot of bad memories because of it. John would have to be careful. Stop at the first sign of trouble.

They got tangled up in each other. Kissed like they were drowning as John ground their hips together.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice when John flicked open the cap of the lubricant with one hand, and managed to smear some of the liquid onto his fingers. He migrated downwards. Licking and sucking the skin on Sherlock's neck. Then his chest. His taut stomach. He took the head of Sherlock's prick into his mouth and swirled his tongue lazily as he slipped a finger between Sherlock's plush arse cheeks and began teasing at his entrance.

* * *

Sherlock let out a steady breath. The sensation was almost overwhelming. The perfect, wet heat of John's mouth—mingled with the tense anticipation of the slick finger nudging against him. It would be easy to panic. After all, he'd spent so much of his life avoiding this exact moment and the strange vulnerability that it entailed.

But if John could trust him after everything they'd been through—he could certainly trust John as well.

He tried to focus on John's mouth. But he couldn't entirely ignore the finger circling his arsehole. Teasing at it. Stroking across it. Trying to get the muscle to relax. The feeling wasn't exactly unpleasant. His body soon gave in. Relaxed just enough to let John's finger sink inside.

Sherlock bit down on his lip.

Really, it wasn't so much. The intrusion felt odd more than outright uncomfortable. The stretch was slightly out of place. But not painful. John continued to bob up and down on Sherlock's cock, albeit with a bit less focus, as he slid his finger a bit further in.

When he nudged against the right spot—that tense little bundle of nerve endings—maybe Sherlock let out a little whining noise.

John set up a slow rhythm, teasing at Sherlock's prostate. Just barely grazing across it with every motion and before long, Sherlock couldn't really keep himself from squirming. John pulled back, mouthing at Sherlock's hipbone and thigh before sitting up.

A moment of sizzling eye contact held before John pushed another finger in.

That one felt a bit uncomfortable. Sherlock breathed through it. Because John didn't stop. He just kept up the teasing, sending exotic shocks of pleasure racing through Sherlock's nerve endings.

It didn't exactly feel like spiraling out of control. Not in the same way all his games with Moriarty had. After all, Sherlock wasn't exactly powerless. He could say _stop_ at any point, and he had zero doubts that John wouldn't obey him instantly.

No. This wasn't surrender. It was a gift. He was letting John do this. And, well…. it wasn't exactly objectionable. It did feel rather nice at that particular moment.

John took his time. Scissoring his fingers. Slowly coaxing Sherlock's muscles into a state of easy relaxation. It grew progressively easier to focus on the throb of pleasure, rather than any lingering discomfort.

John withdrew his fingers and slicked up with a bit more lubricant before pushing three into Sherlock's body. The detective grunted. It felt like a bit much. A lot. But not necessarily more than he could handle.

Especially when John rubbed against his prostate and sent little sparks of something wonderful ricocheting through Sherlock's body.

He felt reasonably loose before too long. Three fingers didn't seem like such an intrusion anymore. He knew John's cock was a lot thicker—but he could take it. He wanted it.

"I'm ready," Sherlock said in a voice that wasn't entirely his own. He sounded a bit shaky. Raw. Scared?

John licked his lips. His eyes were wide and dark. Skin flushed with arousal. But he still didn't leap the second Sherlock said he could. He kept up the steady motions of his fingers.

"I don't mind taking our time," John said quietly. Soothingly. "There's no rush."

"I know," Sherlock fell into a near whisper, "but I want you inside me. Now."

John's mouth fell open. He looked almost starved. Like Sherlock was a nice cut of meat to be devoured.

The doctor slicked his cock liberally and situated himself between Sherlock's legs. Leaning over him, supporting himself with one arm and positioning his cock with the other. Sherlock tried not to tense. Tried to remember that breathing, no matter how dull, was actually necessary.

The blunt head of John's cock pressed against him. It felt big. Perhaps too big. He wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and focused on the tiny details of his face. The little freckles you could only see when you got really close. The near-unsettling deepness of his eyes.

"I love you," John's voice rumbled like a seismic shift.

He pressed forward a bit more insistently and Sherlock's body gave. The head of the doctor's cock popped in past the first ring of muscle and Sherlock gasped.

It burned. But the pain wasn't clear and sharp. It was muddied by the excitement of it all. The signal slightly confused by Sherlock's arousal. And John stayed perfectly still. Staring down at him, waiting for something.

The doctor wrapped his hand around Sherlock's prick and gave it a slow stroke. The detective shuddered slightly at the feeling. He licked his lips and gave John a curt nod. The smaller man let go, supporting himself with both arms, and pressed further into him.

The head of John's cock nudged against the right place and a small moan escaped Sherlock's lips.

"There?" John asked in a low, husky voice.

"Uh…. Yes."

John withdrew only to thrust back in slowly, grazing against the exact same spot. It sent a wave of heat coursing through Sherlock's blood.

The doctor began to fuck Sherlock in languid, shallow motions. Sure. Unhurried. It made the detective's head spin. Every breath felt shaky. His heart pounded in his throat. He couldn't think about anything but the warm body above him. Pressing into him.

He pulled John downwards—following a sudden impulse for more contact. The doctor's stomach slid against Sherlock's prick as he continued to move. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist instinctively. The doctor nipped at Sherlock's neck.

Then he began to pick up speed.

"How does it feel?" John all but groaned.

Sherlock could barely gather is thoughts into coherent words. His body was a flood of conflicting signals. Burning. Crumbling. Yes. Fuck. _More._

"It feels like you're taking me apart."

John slowed a bit, looking down with suddenly worried eyes. "Should I stop?"

Sherlock held onto him tighter. "No."

John thrust into him with more intention. Their lazy motions became more measured. Purposeful. Driving forward with a goal.

A constant flicker of pleasure danced across Sherlock's nerve endings. Kept him anxious. Because it was nowhere near enough. Just a tease. Just a taste.

But then every so often, John entered him at a particular angle, or intensity, and a deep, aching tension clutched at him, and almost made him see stars. He began to push back against John's motions. Trying to catch the sensation and hold onto it.

"Oh god, Sherlock," John panted. "You're so tight… fuck… you're lovely. You're fucking perfect."

Sherlock responded with a small whimper. Because yes. That was it. John changed the angle of his motions slightly and Sherlock couldn't breathe anymore.

The feeling built slowly. He felt his muscles pull tight. The pleasure throbbed in a tumultuous crescendo.

"Please," he whispered incoherently.

It was difficult to tell whether or not John actually heard him. Perhaps it didn't matter. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock and began to stroke him in time with every thrust. The world spun out. Stopped entirely and slid sideways.

Sherlock opened his mouth and let out a series of low moans. This only seemed to excite John further. He sped up. The taller man trembled. It felt like he'd reached the verge of something terrible. Met the edge and no longer wanted to go over it. It would be too much. He couldn't handle it.

But it seemed he'd passed the point of having a choice in the matter.

An odd feeling, a lot like free-fall set in. A complete and utter sense of powerlessness. His muscles constricted completely.

Then released.

He felt each rhythmic spasm. His cock jerked and the pleasure crashed through him. Wrecked him entirely. He cried out before drowning on the wave of reward chemicals that swept through his brain. Adrenaline, oxytocin, dopamine.

John grunted and panted above him for a few more minutes before he shuddered and Sherlock felt just a little bit stickier. John withdrew and collapsed on top of him. Sherlock could feel John's come trickling back out of him. He wasn't sure whether he found it a bit sexy, or a bit distasteful. Perhaps both.

"Well, Jesus," John snorted. "I think you've killed me."

"Perhaps we've killed each other," Sherlock let out a long sated sigh.

They lay there for a long while, boneless and sluggish. Sherlock eventually found the wine and they sipped their glasses casually, soaking in the afterglow.

"Thank you," John said once he'd finished his glass. "That was fantastic."

"Yes, it was," the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards. "Perhaps I should be thanking you as well."

A lot of questions hovered in the air unaddressed. _Where do we go from here? Will things always be like this? What about tomorrow? And the day after that?_

But for the time being, none of them seemed to matter so much. They were together. Right then, it seemed like it could stay a steady, unchangeable fact. Sherlock and John. Always joined by a conjunction. Never separate again. It seemed like a rather grand idea.

"Is this our honeymoon?" John snorted, jarring Sherlock out of his thoughts.

"I thought one customarily had to be married before they had a honeymoon."

"Since when have we ever doing things the proper way?"

"Never," Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose this can be our honeymoon if you want. Does that mean you just proposed to me?"

"No."

"Good. I'm not sure I'm ready for that kind of commitment."

They stared at each other silently for a full thirty seconds before the both collapsed into a fit of laughter.

Soon the air grew a bit chilly on their sweaty skin, so they climbed under the covers and cuddled up against each other properly. Sherlock's mind swirled sleepily, still hazy from the sex and glass of wine. As he allowed himself to drift he thought vaguely about it.

_Married._

He didn't need a piece of paper to tell him that John was his. But perhaps, somewhere down the line, it might be a good idea. For the tax benefits, and whatnot. Perhaps someday they'd move out of 221b and buy themselves a proper house. As long as John stayed with him, he didn't care much where they lived, or what their legal status was.

But maybe, at some far off point... after they'd smoothed out all the rough edges of this rather twisted love affair... it would be nice to settle down together.

* * *

_And you people thought I'd never give you Top!John *cackles manically* _

_But... WAHHHHHHHHHH. No. It's not over. Shh. It's fine. There's still the sickeningly domestic epilogue. And probably a page and a half author's note of my feelings about you fantastic people._

_Your reviews, follows and favorites have left me entirely speechless. When I started off on this crazy adventure, I never thought I'd find so many wonderful readers. I can't. This story has almost broken 100,000 views and I'm going to die because I can't believe it._

_I just._

_Let's all have tea over skype and cry about our emotions. That failing, you should come be my friend on tumblr (__**taylorpotato . tumblr . com**__). We'll waste entire afternoons squealing about gif-sets and cosplaying horribly._

_By popular request, I've actually set down and started to work on a teen!lock story. The first chapter should be up before the month is out._

_I love you. I really do._ _I'll see you next week for more disgusting flufyness!_

_xoxo_


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